


血液と墨 / Blood and Ink

by Inde



Series: Genji x Reader Arc [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Dragons, Enemies to Allies, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Flashbacks, Modern Assassins, Organized Crime, Pre-Overwatch, Sexual Frustration, Strained Friendships, Yakuza
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-03-22
Updated: 2017-06-30
Packaged: 2018-10-09 09:36:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 41,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10409199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Inde/pseuds/Inde
Summary: People and places are no longer as you remember them in the wake of your boyfriend's tragic passing.Only, the dead never truly stay dead in Hanamura.





	1. Eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to 花弁/Petals, picking up directly where we left off.

“Genji?” 

Not him as you remembered, but him regardless without any further illusion. Once again, as in the low-lights of the bar that firmly belonged to a life long past, he stood solid and tall. He held a caution parallel to yours and prepared himself for you to be undecided with what to make of him all over. It was as if you had been seeing each other for the first time.

In some way, you were.

He assumed the appearance of someone you had never known him to be. Not the right outline, rather, a dramaticized recreation of the body you remembered. The approximate dimensions drew near likeness— save for the possibility that he was stronger and with a new broadness, but leaner— all without being superficially human. No face of molten amber eyes or mouth pulled into a smile that tried to deny itself, as was his wont. Instead he was edges, ridges, and smooth matte ivory casings over synthetic waxen brown-segmented muscle. Spotless faceplates, belonging to the mask of metal, engraved with phosphorescent green, the same softly radiant hue wandering over his body, all-contrasting the surrounding pale night.

There was no anatomic proof, only a visceral reaction that you had not known you were straining against until you had realized how you had scarcely breathed since catching his reflection. Inside your prompt examination did the fabric tail of his scarf, from behind his head, fly up and back in a sudden skirl of wind, snapping. With that, urging speech, stressing a need for exchange.

“You came back.”

Spoken in an incredulous whisper, if that, with your very articulation threatening to unravel and fray the quilt of reality; it should not have been a possibility for him, in any form, to reappear. You had stood in a haze of incense lit in his honor less than an hour ago and were no less full of smothering consciousness with the earthy, meditative solace of patchouli and cloves still hanging off you.

You had also clearly felt the overwhelming, exhaustive sense of loss in his brother, who had since renounced the family and atrophied in bereavement. Before, Hanzo's intensity was inherited, supposedly bearing likeness to their father's presence— but had since mutated, transformed into vestigial distaste for everyone and everything. In his descent, he had abandoned himself and became lost in thoughts of serpentine guilt that coiled tightly about his mind. In his descent, he had lost himself. Hanzo had gone on to live in enforced solitude since he had pressed the letter for you to find between the pages of the book that you could not liberate yourself from as you had previously tried. It always came back— like the moon at night, like the rotation of the seasons, like the dragons in Shimada family Mon.

Like Genji himself.

Limbs elegantly twisting— no abrasion and flexion soundless, extension not without a gentle, compressed rasp— his torso fell into line and became square with where you stood. As he cocked his head to the side, the neon burst of his mask flickered expressively, a candle being tested by tiny lungs, only to remain alight.

“So, we meet again.”

His voice was smooth and airy, each syllable encased in a soft electronic hum.

Then came the awareness of his eyes lingering over you with considerable gratitude, solidifying that you had not been harmed in his absence. This was one of his countless tortures, constantly getting stuck on what the family could have done to you while he was incapable of preventing disaster. And it was strange how it worked, how you had tried for so long to remember the feeling of his gaze, well past the point of specific agony for just how effortlessly he would make you tremble with but a glance, did he make his return and demonstrate that it was not a lost art.

A long silence past in your mutual examination— the night carrying a steady wealth about soundlessness as if it too were listening— all before another gust of wind whisked the petals by your feet. The long fabric tail of his wind-seized scarf lashed audibly once again. A swooning halt took place, prolonging the tongue-tied unity until eventually speaking had become an inescapable thing and you felt pressure to say something towards the weight of his gaze.

 _You’re here, you’re really here—_ mentallyrepeated until _here_ lost meaning. You spoke abruptly with a heavy saturation of disbelief, the product from an entire year spent drifting.

“You _died_. That’s a fact, not my imagination.”

You expected the scratching sound of dragon’s claws, some complete objection of reality. None of it was possible, after all.

There was an audible inflection of a smirk from going through the moment in his mind a thousand times and seeing this version of you in each outcome.  _You're still as skeptical as the first time we met, huh?_  But for as many times as had ran through the conversation and prepared how to respond, he had never factored in how unprepared he would feel to just be standing near you again. A simple thing made so complicated.

“It’s a long story.”

_It damn well better be._

With difficulty you swallowed, deliberated, then spoke.

“I think we have time, don't you?”

You knew all to well how versed he was in avoiding the truth.

Finding the ledge of the railing behind him, segmented fingers winding around the black aluminum, he settled his weight back. The way he moved, delicate and easily, made evident that his protective coverings were more adaptable then their inflexible appearance suggested. Through his adjustment, his mask remained attentive to you. The horizontal score of green light held your curious gaze just as confidently as his eyes used to, denying a want to focus on anything else— denying further, than anything else could have existed then, but you.

“I’ll tell you everything. In time.”

He took his secrets to the grave and back, explicable considering the events of your combined history but far from satisfactory. _Everything_ was a discouraging word, a tomb, ratifying certain depth to what had driven you apart and implying things you would have preferred not to know. _Everything_ was like the beginning of a story that dropped off into myth— _once upon a time I was flesh and bone, then everything went sideways._

Minutes of looping rumination held you, thinking being less confrontational than dialogue. Trapeze-ing the inevitable question, unable to keep away from it all as you faced him. Your voice dropped.

“Is it really you?”

The betrayal of his brother had devastated, claiming an inferno of the mind; it created rage, sparked rank atrociousness he had never before felt. Betrayal had burnt away the respect for his kin, leaving something charred and ugly in its place. Minimally, tragically, he was still there among ashes, enigmatic personality of the _ninja playboy_ you had known and missed, no different then a flame-eaten phoenix. Rising, becoming again.

Becoming what he had, hurt. Insurmountably so. The operations, ongoing physiotherapy, tranquilizers displacing the clock, lying still for days in thick miasma, steady ache in places that had never been meant to recognize tenderness, blotting it out with the induction of comas. _“Genji, on a scale of one to ten, how is your pain today?”_ The doctor’s understanding was best assured in her daily evaluations, instilling routine with her interval— as kind as she was, he would frequently respond with _“eleven”_ to spite the restriction numbers placed over him, when speech was a manageable device. Portions of his limbs remained as you had come to know them, though he had been overhauled and transformed from the inside out. Blood circulated in new paths to accommodate their intricate medical technology; he was rife with biomechanical upgrades. Terms and names like pneumatic servosystems and Dr. Ziegler would mean little to you.

_Is it really you?_

“Yes.”

For the first time since, his face turned away. His brain felt heavy and required too much effort to keep level, filling up with cement. His eyes edged up and back to the tinsel consolations. The stars stretched all the way to the skyline, just out of reach.

You took a step towards him; the few footsteps that kept you separated feeling vast and impersonal. He stiffened, protectively, before clarifying with an apprehension that could have all the same been choking him.

“ _This_ is what I am now.These parts, these materials. _"_

“What happened to you?”

“They rebuilt me.”

“That’s a very short answer for something so—“

_Complicated._

“Repulsive,” he offered.

"No. Not you, not ever..."

Resentment resurfaced from the way he had been treated after his unveiling, assuming the prospect that your judgment would be not unlike _theirs_ from prolonged exposure, his self-worth callously beaten into the ground. And if you were not repulsed on the spot, so he had decided in time, _certainly you would be_ , as there was little warmth he could offer now. You would come to learn his inadequacies, come to treat him like a piece of equipment as _they_ had, unable to see past his design through political contamination. Equality had become a concept of revolutionaries; relations had remained in varying degrees of fracture since the crisis between the self-aware omnics and stubborn humanity, always the same dizzying row between The Shambali upholding their beliefs in endowment of souls while humans clung to the superiority internal organs bestowed. He had both, soul and heart, but was excluded from belonging completely to either side being the hybrid that he was— _an outcast, a mistake_.

The wind interrupted once again, scattering the petals further as they spiraled over the concrete. You could not look away while, under the detonation of such critical thoughts, he had a difficult time looking back. You respected his space but spoke before you could think, repeating yourself. “You were _dead_.” Tiredly, said in exhaustion of repeating the same phase and not having it any less answered— _dead_ , supposedly, not applicable vocabulary anymore.

Genji cleared his throat. He held the railing tighter in his grip.

“I was in Gibraltar.”

_What? Like on vacation?_

It was hard for you not to appear livid towards his casual reply, witticism offensive as a drop of black paint in white. The feelings then too, were muddied. A year spent mourning, washed in grey, lonely and cursed, all to hear him say that in consolation. _Too busy eating profiteroles and hanging out on that famous fucking rock to get in contact with me or something?_

Finally, his helmet turned down from the sky, the glow about him loosely remorseful even if only imagined. He persuaded himself to speak, your feelings blatant and pulling at him, “I didn’t want to come back to you broken. Couldn't let myself.” Then the realization, as noted in the slow disintegration of neutrality behind the plates, and the creeping suffocation of panic— _But I did, didn’t I? You can see that, can’t you?_ His grip strong enough then to crush the railing he held onto.

Your assumptions lost ground at his voice, a second heartbreak pronounced in itself as the impression of what he had said began to stretch and settle within you. He _hated_ himself so openly and obviously for what he had become. You decided that Gibraltar could be explained, the same for his arrival and appearance, but all in time— then wasn’t it.

There was too much to say and not enough language.

"Genji, you’re hardly broken. You’re..."

“I shouldn’t have come here tonight.”

He began to speak again but stopped, grip slackened until his limbs returned to his sides. Wincing, overcome by invisible pain for thinking it but even more as he transferred the idea into sound. He admitted.

But that wasn't what you wanted to hear.

Not without desperation and fighting the want to try another step, you relented.

“No, why didn’t you come back to me sooner?”

 _Why didn't you call, text, email. For god sake, send a carrier pigeon. Didn’t I deserve to know you were okay?_  

Almost immediately after you had said so, he countered, “I would have… Except—” he folded forward, bent at his core with his shielded face nearly level with your own, having to adjust your focus. Drained then, with a sudden loss of animation and strength, he asked, “How could you love someone like me _now_? Someone like this?”

And how he said it was so dark, so honest, and so haunting, that it demanded a moment. The same insecurities as he had in the hallowed castle grounds prevailed, intensified by the chasm of greater change. The same insecurities, from never clarifying then, for keeping love in past tense. Considering that as much as the time without him had brutal for you— ramen inedible, the superstitious symbolism of petals and sparrows— it had been worse for him. Much worse. Which allowed it to register then, what he had meant and what he had felt. You were offended for him, on behalf of the person that he had been before.

An entire year’s worth of grief filled your mouth as you rushed to his defense and spoke against the faceplates, “I missed you from _the very moment_  we saw each other last and you have the nerve to think _that_?”

Then surprise in the sounds of his synthetic muscle and organic tissue working in combination as he pulled back to the ledge, “I missed you, with all of me…” Inadequate, missing depth.  _I thought of the first time I saw you every morning and every night. I thought of how happy I was when you let me leave with you and it ached._  Then, suddenly brimming with misdirected anger, his fingers coiled tightly to his palm. "I needed you." 

“But I was here, _right here_ , waiting and—“

His body language changed as you spoke, recognizing his mistake for allowing the feelings that had not been caused by you to come out. He reduced, wilted.

“—waiting, looking for you everywhere…”

He curled into himself and pressed a hand to his visor, doomed to futility but a learned reaction. His shoulders shuttered. “I know,” anger flooded his tone, towards himself, but eased and subsided. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”

And that was all it took for you to set everything aside, knowing that touch would solidify his presence and somehow reduce the misunderstandings yet, a complicated barrier had rose between you, apparent well before. You tested his recoil once again; unable to help it or the cavernous space in your chest that had ached for him, needed him— and he did not move in response, although his chest and spine became unnaturally stiff. You could hear his unsteady breathing behind the metal visor and imagined his face on the very first night you met, his green hair under the fluorescents.

 No more than a whisper and no need to be louder, from you to him.

"You really came back."

Softening at your voice, becoming tame, the synthetic tendons on his neck slacked as his chin tipped down towards his chest.

"Yes. I had to. For you, anything."

Slowly, you reached for his hand, your fingers shyly passing over his armored forearm and slipping downward. He weakly grabbed onto you, your palm pressed to the back of his hand. Of course, the texture was different— _not skin_ — reported by your own flesh, but still in every other way _him_. You wept suddenly for that— and felt concern tear though him. There was frustration for not being able to properly communicate and assure him that whatever had been done to keep him alive could never be regarded as horrific.

“I know you must feel like I can’t see you because of this…” Your other hand, for emphasis, pressed to the metal of his chest, fully closing the space between you, “But, Genji, I’ve looked for you everywhere and I finally found you."

His grip changed to turn your hand loose, the other guiding your palm back down to your side— only so that he could pull you completely to him. The soft sigh of his body as it moved, as you rested against the alternate natural warmth and synthetic cool of the armor, as influenced by the night. You could hear the faint heartbeat beneath. Not artificial, not a dream.

And then he said something he had never had a chance to say before.

“I love you. I think I always have, I think I was always meant to."

He re-secured his grip on you, the flat of one of his hands sliding up your back. Through the fabric of your clothing there was no difference from how he used to touch you. 

Was it possible to pine for him even more than you had before, now, as he stood with you? Was it irresponsible to give in? To submit, to allow him back without the whole story? Or, was it just the way it had always meant to be? Elusive, always just out of reach.

The moon sighed and slipped behind a cloud.


	2. Nightlight

If your shared history had taught you anything, it was that moments of unity or emotional fulfillment would always manage to end too soon; nonsensical time becoming restless, always prepared to change the channel before events could run their natural course. Your reuniting had no such exemption from the prospect and was halted as unexpectedly as it occurred. As you both began to allow yourselves the vulnerability of being physically near each other once again, reconstructing your awareness of him— camber of his torso, slick finish of his plaster and casings, edifying bliss in the expansion of his chest as he breathed— were you tragically interrupted by knocking on the front door of your apartment.

 _Tch._ “I could have guessed…” His comment being very much what you would have expected him to say and left you feeling caught between two distinct timelines. For whatever sadness it had inspired— to accidentally and innocently recall your past, much like stubbing your toe— had there been an equally as prominent counterpart in the promise that what you had conceivably loved most about him remained untouched, regardless of how much of him had been had been altered along the surface.

He regretfully unfolded his limbs from around you as you backed up, suitably so, to re-establish eye contact with what _would have been_ eyes if it had not been polished metal. “Expecting anyone else tonight?” He asked with a voice still disarmingly mild in the face of interference before adding further though a civil tip of his helmet, as if to attach, _aside from me?_

You offered a discrete shake of your head in return before vocalizing, “No one, actually.” _You included._

You both moved towards the door with Genji deferentially at your side, accepting him as your then-shadow with belated relief for the whole situation; there was unspoken thrill within your nervous system, still plugging away at all the new stimuli of the same person you had committed yourself to recreate. Each step was a silent victory for each day that had ended sourly in tears.

They knocked again in another quick round. Not menacing and all without fever behind the knuckles, just insistent enough to prompt you to call out, “Who is it?”

Your question was compensated by a long pause of forethought by the stranger. Finally, reaching their decision to speak, were you obliged, “Hanzo.”

_An entire year passed without either Shimada, then I get both in one night._

Though you could not see Genji’s expression, you could feel it; the mask swiveled on his neck, from the door to you. The room began to suffocate on a secret so dark and cramped that you could have sworn the lights overhead flickered dramatically. A second passed, stretched, and snapped before he retreated. Knowing the layout of your small space well enough, he tucked himself into the bathroom. Shortly after the door shut softly, as to not showcase his presence, came the snap of the lock.

_I'll take it that means you’re not on speaking terms._

Corralling your attention back, advancing enough to look out the peephole, you questioned further, “What are you doing here and how do you know where I live?” 

Hanzo ignored you, “I would prefer to not speak through a locked door.” Then, after you would have considered it overdue, “Please.”

It wasn't that you had assumed he would be poor company, only that he could not have picked a more inappropriate moment. You scolded his bad timing, throwing a look of vague concern towards an invisible audience, “ _And I prefer answers to questions._ What’s going on?”

“I assure you that I would not be here if it were anything less than urgent.”

You decided the sincerity in his voice was enough to at least hear him out before unlatching the locks and pulling the handle.

The brother was as he had appeared before; his features, no less noble and pronounced, only amid kept facial hair and subtle outline of the eyes. His light jacket was left unzipped— unnecessary for the early summer weather, but paramount in keeping tattoos hidden. His shirt looked dampened with sweat, same for his brow. You stepped out of the doorframe to allow him inside and he expressed his gratitude with a small, gruff "thank you" in passing. His movement was a rush of oud and smoke, the reminder of incense from earlier along with a just-finished cigarette.

He unlaced his boots, basic politeness even as he had come at such an ungodly hour, speaking as he arched over his own feet while carelessly revealing a foreboding stain about his knuckles, “Forgive my intrusion.”

You focused on his hands, the tinge of crimson he appeared to have tried to wipe away, “Mind telling me what has you showing up here past midnight?”  _And why is it that every time a Shimada shows up to my door, they have blood on their hands?_

There was a certain dark shift in his tone as he reminded you, “That is my intention, after all.” 

For all his urgency and for how his voice turned, you recognized he wasn’t about to deliver anything you would have wanted to hear. When had you ever met under circumstances that were not dire or strained?

He returned to his full height, out of his boots, before beginning his survey, “Did you see the sign posted at the castle gates?”

“Yeah, hard to miss.” The sign to keep trespassers out, fixed to the central column. “I didn’t realize people were no longer welcome to visit. A shame, I think…” It really was stunning there— if you were able to set aside all the butchery it had hosted, likely since it sprouted up from the ground.

He nodded, returning to the matter by probing further, “What else?”

“I only managed to get in because you roughed up a group of guys and in their haste to go, they left the gate open.” _Proof you’re related to Genji, if I ever needed more of it. You both love to dance around the point, don't you?_

Suddenly serious with the bend of an eyebrow. He stepped forward to speak after his throat bobbed in a swallow, “So you saw _that_ much. Did they appear to notice you?”

“They were too busy running away to say anything to me. But why is that important anyways?”

Hanzo’s eyelids snapped shut, pulling his conclusion out slowly with no other questions to delay the explantation, “They came back. In numbers.”

“I didn't see any _suits_ on my way back to the station.”

He peaked an eye open, expecting some emotion from you that he didn’t hear.

“With the death of my bother—“ a lengthy pause from him, inviting the brief and conceivably inaccurate mental image of Genji eating profiterole and sitting on the rock of Gibraltar from you, but only until Hanzo managed the rest, “— and parting ways with the clan, I fear the worst.” A sense of loss had deepened his voice, for all that had come to pass and how it was tireless, proving to continuously disturb him in inventive ways; Genji’s name had not since lost its edge. “Perhaps we should sit?” He suggested, naturally without managing to make it sound like an option.

“If you’re going to hit me with bad news, I don’t think sitting down is going to help.” _Besides, I can’t take any more revelations tonight._ But you took to the couch anyway and he joined you, though on the opposite end with a healthy distance keeping you seperated. You leaned back into the cushions as he remained taut with his elbows resting over his thighs, a habitual pose for all the rooms he had walked into and hushed with his presence. His body had not yet forgotten how to hold itself with authority. 

“I worry because they will not like knowing that we are in contact. I assume our collaboration offends them, in some way.”

"Alleged collaboration," you corrected, for Genji's benefit if anything. _Since when is burning incense together a crime?_

"Even so," he nodded to agree with you before adding, "It is their perception that matters."

 _Great._ “I didn’t see anyone on my way to the station." You considered the short walk back with nothing exceptional to report, resisting the sudden urge to laugh, "I mean, there was some drunken businessman taking a leak in an alleyway. He gave me some questionable eye-contact in passing, but, nothing else significant... “

Hanzo flinched, the look he gave in response was not meant to be comical but was for how his barrier of silent intensity had dropped, momentarily. He admitted, sufficiently contained again and eyebrow darting once more, “I took care of them before they made themselves known.” Finally examining his hands, passing a thumb over the ridge of his fingers, his voice approached a scolding tone, “They were on _your_ heel.” As if it had been your fault and you ought to be more alert.

Explaining his knuckles, explaining his strangeness— some of it anyway— by the leftover adrenaline still running its course. Your first reaction, thanking him for allowing you to get home safely, was twisted as you spoke. What you ended up saying was dictated by superior reason, “So, you're admitting that you followed me too?”

“Ah—“ His face blanked before he folded him arms over his chest, “I had a bad feeling as you left.” _Bad_ being a hilarious stand-in for what the situation truly called for. “Unfortunately, I was right to be concerned.” _It is as much of a nuisance as it is a gift._

“I’m not keen on asking or being roped into this to begin with but why does it matter if you handled them?”

He made a pained expression.

_Oh god. Lay it on me._

“I doubt that you have seen the last of them.” With calculation, not about to tell you, _I used to orchestrate this specific brand of madness_ , but just as well dropping continual hints though his guise of polite language and insistence.

“Meaning what, exactly?”

“I fear they will want to get rid of you too."

Approaching worry, only then, you stiffened your back, "And how do you figure that?"

"They would have been sent to the castle if they were meant for me. I caught them heading towards station, in your direction.”

_Charming._

You stood up. Your intuition was right, sitting down didn’t make the news any less palatable. “I go back to Hanamura for _one night_ and come back with a hit over my head, is that what you’re telling me?”

“It is natural to be upset—”

 _Yeah, natural._ Natural being a word that was still largely unnatural inside the context of the evening, sparking the visceral recollection of Genji’s new skin under your expectant fingers. How much of the night wanted to assume the face of normality?

He absorbed as much silent information as he could in the moment, your lack of reaction bringing him to the edge of his seat. You stole yourself away from his observation, wondering how much he could ascertain with all the damage your composure had taken. “I’ll be right back.”

“Ah—“ Hanzo was about to speak but you had already walked towards the bathroom.

With the door graciously left unlocked for you and shutting it swiftly behind, had you found Genji sitting in the bathtub with his legs folded to his chest. Wisps of steam rose off his body from the green circles, as if little chimneys releasing the leftovers of numerous dying fires. You thought against asking him why he had ended up there for the sake of his posture and what it had communicated to you in its defensive curl.

Banking on him paying attention to the conversation, hardly meters away, you asked in a voice just slightly above a whisper, “What do you make of all this?” You hadn't previously bothered coming to a consensus without his opinion. It seemed irrational to worry about being hunted down by suits when Genji had come back, your casual handling of the situation confounding Hanzo, who had been groomed to believe there was no greater force than the organized crime he came from.

Of course, Genji would never let them harm you— would he?

Though, there was no audible response to your question because unknown to you then as the war that took place, inwardly. The sound of Hanzo's voice was enough to send him back into that night, the depth of his previous trauma. To remember the coppery knell from the bell he was impaled upon before being pulled into his brother's chest, breath rattling out of his then-punctured lungs— organic flesh was so fragile, too fragile— sky disintegrating as he slipped away...

The mass of scars over his face from the scatter arrow burned, white-hot.

You bent over the unfilled tub, to the contortion of white and brown and grey, hoping to find some suggestion of what to say over his faceplates. You had but completely knelt next to him when his face turned towards your own, sounding remote and destabilized, “Can you _please_ make him leave?” Leaving a space for a single splintered breath before he begged, the thin electric distortion only highlighting his discomfort, “ _Now?_ ”

You moved to touch his shoulder but remembered his previous recoiling and restrained yourself, ensuring him that you would.

As you left the bathroom, the click of the door’s locking mechanism punctuating Genji’s request, you found Hanzo with _the_ book cradled in a palm. He had not bothered to actively read, unsurprisingly familiar with the contents, only occupying himself after finding it on the low table before him. He did not stop looking at the illustrations with superficial interest once you came back, but spoke over the paper gutter with something close to frustration, “Your safety is no longer guaranteed, you must know this.” Meaning something more along the lines of: _please take this seriously_.

He was testing you for your lack of reaction, concluding that it was more likely due to you not appreciating the magnitude of the information rather than the presence of his presumed-to-be dead brother in the other room. “I appreciate that, really, but—“ You began, gesturing flatly with your hands as you wandered back into the living area from the hallway. 

The book snapped shut in clear anticipation of your refusal. “Genji would want me to.” The name was more like a growl and less of anything else, speaking through the burn of peroxide in the wound his name created.

_Yeah, about that… He also wants you to get out._

“I will do what I can for you, for him. I owe him that much.” The darkness of his eyes, the familiar stare you were used to from his brother made your words softer than you had intended. 

“It’s not necessary—”

“If anyone knows what _they_ are capable of, it would be someone who used to lead them.” He continued, holding the closed book with sudden reverence, Hamlet and the unearthed skull of Yorick, “If you stay out of Hanamura, I doubt they will come looking for you.”

“I’ve stayed away for months, I can manage.”

“I understand.” Then quieter and not meant for you, “So have I…”

“Sorry?”

“I said, I will find out what I can.”

Before leaving, he had prefaced a request with “I hate to impose” then asked to use the bathroom to wash the blood off. You breathed a great sigh of relief as he moved down the hallway and rattled the handle uselessly. You offered the kitchen sink instead, which he accepted without question.

“It bears repeating but look after yourself.” All the sudden sternness and authority of a parent, both worried and dubious for your wellbeing as if you could not comprehend alone that the world was a dangerous place, all as he retied his boots. You imagined, successfully, it was a tone his brother used to constantly hear.

After he had closed the door after him, you expected for Genji to reappear— but he hadn’t. You softly called over your shoulder, “He’s gone. You can come out now.”

Nothing.

“I take it you haven’t told Hanzo you’re still alive.”

To no reply, again.

“Genji?”

You rested your body against the door, after uselessly trying the handle, sliding down until you were sitting, “I'll stake out my own bathroom the entire night if you don’t open up.”

You looked towards the sofa from the hallway that spilled out into the living room, seeing Hanzo speaking to you in your memory as if you had been spectator to the entire process. You looked past the imaginary conversation to the moon, beyond the sliding glass, that had since reached its peak height in the sky and began to slip away. The whole world was shifting its colour palette, purple and blue thawing.

Genji was still silent.

You finally offered, “We don’t have to talk about it— any of it. We can just go to sleep.”

Finally then, a sound, movement again made evident by the pneumatics of his extensions as he returned to his feet. He had been seated on the other side of the door, his back to yours.

Once you faced him again, he was first to speak and quickly apologized. You gave him a weak smile, attempting playfulness but ending up with the opposite impression, "I almost thought I was alone again."

"Don't—" one fluid movement, you were back in his arms, "— say that. I'm with you  _now_."

But eventually the hug dissolved with him straying into kitchen to grab and fill two glasses for water as you retreated into your room to draw the blinds. Even with the slats laying flat against the glass as they were, the windows were creased with soft, pale light. As he returned to your room, with his ability to sneak up on you dangerously over-emphasized by his upgrades, you had begun pulling clothes off without being tipped off by his presence.

_Ah—_

As if met by quiet rapture, he said nothing, completely taken as you revealed what he had longed for, forgetting at last the enduring ache of trying to remember you at such fine detail. The light that seeped in— to burnish your limbs and neck and back— only existed with a singular purpose. The illusion was served, poetically. As you were cast in the anticipation of dawn, from where he stood, you were glowing.

_Ffffffsssstttt._

You turned into the sound only a moment too shy to see how the vents in his armor had been forced out with steam, left with an incomplete visual of the mist climbing up his body and dissipating. Treating his response to the overwhelming sight of you then like a failed test, he scowled from behind the faceplates; it was unheard of that his self-denial had been pushed to such great lengths that the sight of his girlfriend changing had weakened him. Genji from a year back would have raised a brow, wickedly, and doubled over laughing if someone had told him he would go a year without sex. _"Yeah, right. Says fucking who?"_  And so he offered, thickly with embarrassment, to what your expression had become, “I’m fine. _Hot_. But fine.”

As much as you wanted to ask, and for as much as Genji used to tease, it didn’t feel right to do either. Instead, you settled on a comment, “I’m flattered.”

Tch. "Yeah. Flattered." He set the cups down, scowl audible in his remarks before pressing a hand up over his shoulders as if to examine his parts. _Dr. Ziegler. Why?_ Rhetorical, of course, being that the vents saved him from discomfort and malfunction, but applicable then for how red he felt his face had become underneath.

He shook his head, noticing then that you had been staring not at him, but the two glasses he had brought into the room.

“I can drink.”

“Huh?” Absently, but of course, undeniably where your thoughts had gone to.

“I can drink still,” the unsure pause, debating how much he should give up before offering again, “And eat.” He had recognized the look on your face of dilatory curiosity. He knew there was much to explain; just as he had been faced with the challenge of re-learning, so had you. You moved your gaze from the water glasses to him, up his torso, to the plates. Again, he beat you to the questions you would have asked, provided you said you wouldn’t. “Some parts unlatch, they were designed to.” Another unsure pause, then sincerely, “Most don’t.”

You nodded in lieu of a verbal response, understanding words left much to be desired on a topic so apparently raw.

“Would it bother you if I kept this, as it is—“ he gestured up to his face, unsure how to make the request but making the principle clear enough. _I can’t show you without explaining._

“Not at all. You can sleep with it on alright?”

“Don’t worry about me.” A silly thing to say, hanging in the air. Then, “Are you tired?”

“I’m exhausted.”

Miraculous was the small sound of his smirk towards your reply in recognition of the conversation, a duplicate of your first night together. You both had thought it but neither had said it out loud.

Instead, you fell into your bed first, taking initiative to shuffle the pillows about, making room for him. With shy movements, he detached some pieces of metal armor— telling of what could be removed and what couldn’t, as much as you tried not to stare for his sake.

He took a deep breath in, held it, then after a long exhale, instructed in a voice that denied its own calm, “You’ll tell me if you’re uncomfortable, right?”

You hummed in agreement, giving him a slow blink before he moved and rearranged his body so he was next to you.

You let your hand rise, to meet the side of his neck not buried in the pillow. He kept himself devoutly still under your palm, allowing for the curiosity of it, fingertips hovering over the hard notches of his exposed spinal column and moving downward, waiting for a verdict. You stared into his visor, imagining the face beneath. _Is it okay?_ All as he searched you just as intently. Your glassy, half-lidded eyes and faraway irises suffused with his light.

You broke into a crooked smile.

“What?”

“You’re like a nightlight.”

His green flushed though the blanket, muted but still visible, creating patterns.

Your heart leapt in your chest, clumsily scraping the chandelier of your ribs. He had _laughed_. Softly, beautifully— but even so, no less remarkable. Light and silvery still. “Sorry, sorry…” Then, on cue, dimmed himself down to an unnoticeable level. And being that enough had happened in the night as well as with sleep beginning to feasibly settle around you, it was a categorically inappropriate setting for a discussion about neurotechnology, and were satisfied to accept it and ask later.

You inched in closer, your forehead resting against his upper faceplate. He bravely, greedily, at long last, let his hands snake over you, the softness of your skin. Nothing tugged, nothing _unnatural_ in the unhurried movements. If anything, you accepted the grazing of his fingers as a long, wordless apology for every night you had slept alone before he returned.

“Genji,” you sighed.

“Hm.”

“You feel the same.”

Answered with the sound of a smile, the short huff of an exhale for catching him off-guard once again.

You fell asleep after and he followed, your breathing like a metronome, assuring him at least one night of peace before facing the day and all that it would surely bring.


	3. Mercury

You woke to find him starfished, as expected.

Face first, pressed into the pillow, leaving half of his body draped over yours and the other half nearly over and off the mattress. With his new limbs weighing close to nothing there was no real discomfort except for the sliver of space you had been so courteously trapped in. Efforts to recoup your side meant possibly waking him and you preferred to let him sleep, especially after the forced intermission Hanzo had unknowingly brought along with his testimony the previous night. Imagining, only for a moment as you had, being pulled back into the opaque world of the suits had been exhausting enough; for what short-lived encounters you had with them allowed for no re-kindled desire left in you to return to Hanamura— not since what you had missed most about it had their limbs unknowingly thrust over you.

Your eyes roved over his arm, the intricate folds of sleek muscle, but looking for— what? Like a visitor to a foreign landscape, you observed, comparing what you saw to what you could recall. No more soft tissue, occasional bruise, webs of veins, pulse. Feelings of disbelief had since reached the height of swelling and already decided to heal, keeping condemnation for what no longer existed at bay. And what good was skin anyway, organic such as yours, if it could break at the slightest laceration? The tips of your fingers admired the pliant weave along the artificial film of his “naked” arm, knowing it was more resilient than yours, until admiration had transformed into praise.

_You’ll be safer like this._

If _his family_ had broken him— tried to— to have him still breathing, especially then with his body draped around yours, made little difference how he came back and only that he had. _“They rebuilt me.”_ He had mentioned. Elusive and abstruse _they_ , whoever _they_ were; you felt the imaginary threads of obligation like a leash leading off into the unknown, held limp in the owner’s hands. You suddenly wished Genji had been awake to ask who held onto you, and him.

Impulsively, you carefully adjusted with the intention of moving closer before craning your neck to nuzzle your face against slightest of the visor that had not been devoured by the pillow. The cool of the arced plates, then startling for having dropped enough in temperature overnight that it was objectionable against your sleep-warmed cheek, caused you to inhale sharply. Morning piercing the gaps between the blinds filled your room with pale daylight along with his own generated vibrancy that began in his chest before expanding laterally as he came back into awareness. Body responding then, instantly, as his limbs returned to hoist his torso over and becoming fully parallel, no longer infringing on your side of the mattress.

For the way his speech was bent, innocent croak of sleep, he asked gently but with alarm. “Are you alright?”

“Never better,” you assured him, clumsily, not wanting to report that you had startled him awake because his casings had all the assumed likeness of an ice cube.

Despite your attempts at hiding, he seemed to have correctly assumed and pressed his face against yours once again, “Hah! Are you sure about that?” Another sharp inhale from you as the sensation demanded you to shiver into his grip— hands finding your wrists, too quickly for his own good— before the shiver faded into a full-body laugh, having recognized the voice and knowing it would have been coupled with an eyebrow raise. You fought against him, only to have him contest you further in his mischievousness, deciding he wasn’t finished playing until you had begun laughing so much that he was afraid you weren’t getting enough air and that he had pestered you enough.

_I love you, you jerk._

Breathing hard, you rolled onto your side and inched back into him until his chest met your back. He slung an arm over you, his elbow resting on the side of your ribs, his hand crossing your chest and fingers meeting your clavicle.

”Finally, I was able to sleep,” His words had softened, poles apart from his previous taunts and unmistakably ripe with sentiment. “It’s been a long time, has it not?” His voice alone as he spoke over your neck was enough to provoke shivers all over again. He held you through them as you agreed, even as the entire moment was not without it’s own parody. It had been staunchly bittersweet for all the nights that had been tough to live through the scorching loss, unbearable stripped of its meaning only as you had continued to bear it. 

“I think I can handle some questions now, if you’d like.”

“But, we just woke up?”

“I owe you answers.” I  _came back and shut down. I should have explained last night._  “So, what do you want to know?”

Gentle tapping of his heart, hiccups of compressed air in his system, dust motes indolently stirring and swirling about above the two of you.

“Did it hurt?” You asked, finally, into the grace of the morning whose stillness had not shattered as you had expected it to.

“Which part?”

“Dying.”

Morning had only stayed together to shatter then.

“Woah.” He was movement once more, unable to keep still and rolling his body over yours to contain you. _That’s so dark._ He tried to sound light and unbothered, but he wavered, “I don’t know if you want to ask me that—”

“You said I could ask.” _I had your permission, didn’t I?_

His chin lowered, indicative to the way he used to look up at you through eyelashes, provided you could see his expression. You assumed, from how many times you had seen it, that it was the face he was making. “I did. I’m not saying you can’t but perhaps we should work our way up to that.” 

You nodded to agree, trying not to over think his position over you, reminded scornfully of particularly lewd scenarios in the past between you two but it, like everything else, would have to wait. You considered a safer question, asking instead, “Is there anyone besides me know you're still alive?” _You clearly haven’t told your own brother._

“No.” Firmly.

“Will you?”

Again, “No.” Mentally harmonizing— _can’t_.

“Why not?”

“It’s not time yet.”

_Just when I think I understand you, Genji, you go and die on me and then I have to figure you out all over again._

And with that, nudging your cheek with his faceplates again, less frigid than before and bearable, he asked, “Can we be done with questions for now?” Not said, there regardless, the anxiety of having to explain all the volatile uncertainties that he felt just under your skin. Not said, there in his impenetrable expression, his objections towards the true reason for returning.

You took the rest of your morning together slowly, spoiled by his attention, his hands since gravitated to your sides. Speaking in a low murmur, offering bits and pieces of the world away— the weather in Gibraltar, a brief stint in Moracco, visiting the Alcázar in Seville— continuously vigilant of the direction of his stories, never once hinting he had been frequenting research facilities for trials and experiments or a single mention of a scientist named _Winston_. Even so, their recollection surged forward from each story like a mirage in blistering heat.

“What is this Alcázar?” You asked, nearly sent back to sleep from the hypnotic buzzing of his voice together with the leisurely motion of his hands.

“A castle.”

“You and your castles…”

“That isn’t why I went.” Amusement flickered about his eyes as a smirk rose in his voice. You were fortunate that he was expressive enough to show you without having seen it.

“Then why? Because it’s close to Gibraltar?”

He _tch_ -ed, for your impatience as his hands paused, only to continue and smile warmly towards you from under the plates. You had been right— in a way. He had been able to slip into Spain briefly because it had been that close.

“For Mercury.”

You were quiet, knowing he would continue. A sparrow chirped outside.

“At the highpoint of Alcázar is Mercury Pond. Someone told me about it and I grew curious, restless over time. I wanted to see it for myself.” Which he could then see, clearly, spooling from memory was the emerald water and once-glided backdrop of the Gallery of the Grotesque, painted marble, and blooming orange blossoms— _I among them, then._ His smile saddened, stiffened. Mercury, carrier of the Caduceus staff, god of many things— boundaries, trickery, luck— was also said to have guided souls to the underworld.

The pond had been a fitting site to pay homage to in his terrible burden of indecision, aching for such a guide.

His hands left as he got off the bed, rolling his body forward and down to stretch, only to straighten back up and tilt his head towards you, “I can still eat, remember?” On cue, touchingly so, the rumble of his stomach through the casings, “I’m hungry, I can’t help it.”

Already knowing there was little you could offer him, depleted as your fridge had been, you suggested going to the café and getting breakfast, _for old time’s sake_ halted at your teeth. It had been a part of your ritual when you had been banned from Hanamura— and there you were then, banned for the second time.

“I can’t go out.” The risk of being seen, let alone being recognized, was far too great.

“Then I’ll go alone.” _I’ll be 15 minutes, if that._ _10 if the lines aren’t long._

“I’ll worry.” Unapologetic, code for: _don’t_.

 _As long as I stay out of Hanamura, I’ll be fine._ “But Hanzo said—“

He clamed up, visible even in his full fortifications from the pieces he had reattached with ceremonious intent. For some reason, you knew it was the wrong thing to say without knowing why.

“Well, if _Hanzo_ says it’s alright…”

_Genji._

After washing up and dressing, you prepared to head out and found him sulking, cross-legged on the cement floor of the balcony. Summer washed him in light and heat, his vertebral column hardened and arms pulled to his lap. He perked up slightly to your footsteps; his entire back relaxing to the sound although refused to voice his disagreement for a second time. You placed a hand to his shoulder for balance and leaned forward, correctly assuming it would not bother him, kissing the top of each his metal antennae.

“I’ll be back soon,” you assured him, receiving a nod in return.

He sighed upon the door closing, hands reaching up and back to unlatch the top faceplate with a puff of air. Blinking shyly at the sun from the protection of an outstretched hand, beating down upon him through the gaps between his fingers, he took a rare inhale without the aid of a filter before whispering, “It’s nice to see you’re still the same...”

A sad laugh bunched in his throat. The sparrow from earlier chirped again.

 

 

It was early afternoon then by the time you had reached the line to order, at the same café with the wide front window that you were so personally familiar with; the window that gave away into the cobbled street, a stream of people always on the go. After you had paid and stood waiting, food being prepared on the other side of the lacquered partition, identifying the bitter aroma of coffee and freshness of cream churning about the narrow parlor, did you tense. The feeling of being watched, as sudden as anything, had overtaken you. You carefully searched the shop from over a shoulder. A pack of high school students in their uniform and charms rattling from off their backpacks, a woman reapplying coral lipstick in a compact mirror— ceramic rim of the mug at her table wearing an identical hue, an old couple drinking steaming hot tea with their glasses fogging, but lastly in the corner, a man, in a thinly pinstriped suit. He was on his phone and speaking quietly which was enough for you to decide it had been him watching.

You glared at him— _you’ve got to be kidding me—_ being wary as you were of anyone dressed as he was, until he looked uncomfortable enough and got up to leave. Your eyes trailed him to the door, temporarily satisfied until he had disappeared into the flow of the street and you realized it at not been him after all.

Your attention fell to the window.

_You again?_

Creaseless suit over the great boulder of a man, tinted sunglasses serving him no anonymity— Taiyaki had been standing outside, waiting.

With the drinks in each hand, forgetting the food in the shop, you nearly barreled through the shop door in haste. Your specific history obscured the threat of his presence, the contained look about his eyes and dip of his head as he returned the book had said more than he had meant it to.

“You’re about a year too late, _my dude,_ ” with the drinks spilling out of the plastics lid, you called over, nearly running over a slow moving elderly person in your path who hobbled between you and him.

“I’m right on time.” Taiyaki clasped his hands behind his back before feigning enthusiasm. "Bought me a drink, did you?”

“Oh, so we're being friendly and joking? Great. I didn’t know you were so funny. You never used to say much.” You halted before him, the yakuza in the flesh, sun reflecting patriotically off the pin on his lapel. “These are both for me, by the way.” Because _one of these is mine and one is for the guy you had put to death_ wasn’t exactly apt.

“That’s way too much caffeine for you, kid.”

_Kid?_

“ _Matsu_.”

Hanzo, drifting into your peripherals in black canvas jacket and grey distressed jeans, was voice before a presence— _damn Shimada talent for appearing whenever and wherever they liked_. Even as he scolded, he lacked any severity about his face. He gestured towards you. 

“The time has come that you should meet. Formally.”

After folding his sunglasses and slipping them into his pocket, Taiyaki bowed his head. “Matsumoto. Nice to meet you.” He took a comical pause, half-grin seizing his lips. “Have we met before?”

You were nothing short of dumbfounded by the occurrence of both men, who you figured would have been turned enemies. After a bout of speechlessness you finally declared, eyes jumping from one to the other, “I’m so thankful that I knew we were all going to _hang out_ today or else I might have been _really confused_ right about now!” You would have even punched it up with air quotes had both your hands not been occupied.

“If you're always this sarcastic, we're going to get along really well.” Matsu— Matsumoto as you had been informed, Taiyaki having a real name, _bizarre_ — was quick to respond.

Although he had the haze of insomnia about him, Hanzo appeared to be in a better place than the night before. He was quick to reclaim the rudder of the exchange, ignoring your tone and speaking as he surveyed the street. “We have a lot to discuss— but not here.”

And then he was off, with Matsu tailing along and you without the time for objection. Fortunately the walk was short and Hanzo appeared to have had a place in mind by how he had moved with such purpose. You were lead into a not so favorable district, not an active concern by your company— _I’d like to see anyone try to approach me with these guys around_ — before the three of you slipped into a bar.

Taking the head of the table, instinctually, Hanzo was first to sit as you and Matsu claimed chairs at either side. The place was almost empty as it was, but there was always more assurance choosing the table furthest from the door. The barkeep said nothing about the drinks you brought in, looking warily towards Matsu and knowing better than to start a fuss over something so minor.

He was first to speak after the drinks came, catching you off guard with an apology from your first encounter. “The orders weren’t from Hanzo but I had to do it.”

 _Claw._ Likely but not poignant to ask then.

“We had fun though, didn’t we?” He laughed, raspy but certain enough, authentic.

Hanzo’s hands searched the interior pockets of his jacket, for a lighter likely, cigarette crushed lightly between his lips and face disagreeing with Matsu’s idea of fun. Left on the table, next to his glass of sake, the creased and nearly emptied pack of an imported brand.

“They always run but they hardly get away, so… _cheers_ , kid.” Matsu lifted beer up in the air; you weakly pressed your drink from the café against it to return the gesture but not without confusion. “Can’t say I hadn’t assumed following you would be easy from what I was told.”

“Hmm,” Hanzo hummed, half out of annoyance in his ongoing search for the lighter but also out of admiration for what it told him of your character. His eyes dipped to from you to Matsu, “Considering who gave you the orders, that is to be expected...”

“ _Aniki_ , where am I now, huh?” _Do you see me sitting with them or with you?_

Hanzo’s jaw slackened in gradual recognition for his unfairness. He shifted his cigerette between his fingers to eat his words. “Matsu, I know.” He pulled his hand free from his jacket, lighter found. Again, the barkeep could say nothing as Hanzo occupied himself with lighting his cigarette, and so kept busy with a mop even though the floors were already in pristine condition.

Matsu seemed to have forgotten all about it as soon as it was said, and returned to you. “I bet you’re wondering why I’m here.”

“You got me,” facetious, falling into the tone for defense. You had wanted the explanation the very instant you had seen him outside the café but knowing was always delayed.

Hanzo and Matsu exchanged glances.

_You go first? No, you._

Hanzo first took a long drag with a sound of deep satisfaction, then, in likeness of Genji’s vents, exhaled a plume of smoke away from the table with the slightest adjustment of his jaw. He verified, restoring the authority you had expected of his character as he spoke, “If Matsu were to be seen sitting with us by the clan, the consequences for us all would be... dire.”

Somehow, _dire_ felt like a lie, the wrong suspect in a lineup. _Fatal_ was a better word but invoked too much unnecessary fear.

“I’m going to need a little more clarification, not that I don’t trust Matsumoto,” Said again with crisp sarcasm for you had not yet forgotten your chase in the alley. The sound of the aluminum trashcan as he kicked them over, the foggy recollection of old chef who had eventually helped you escape. “I’m not all that familiar with how _your families_ work.” Censorship, in lieu of a word you had not wanted to be the first to say, but that your mind had began to sink in— had been sinking in from the moment you had seen them gathered around the table, under the swinging lanterns in Genji’s back yard. _Yakuza._

Hanzo exhaled another cloud, his eyes following it as it briefly hung in the air. From being born into the life, being surrounded in the affairs and excitement and having to grow up in it, it had slipped his mind that it wasn’t normal. That his normal was being babysat by men who earned their keep through illegitimate activities, hours of training in the shadow of Shimada Castle, being doted on by his parents as their morally corrupt business made headlines— _authorities no closer to illegal arms dealers_ , as his mother daintily sipped tea by the TV, supervising him out of the corner of her eye as he studiously bent over his schoolwork and pretended not to listen.

“Matsu is in debt to my father. By extension, to me.”

“Why?”

“Out of respect, kid.” Matsu’s gruff voice interjected before taking a great swig of the beer. “Respect and loyalty mean more than money. Or they did.” He took another sip before philosophizing, “And what’s money, down the line, when you have enough of it? It’s paper.”

Not specific enough. You pressed both palms to the table, “Respect, sure. That much I understand. But what exactly did he do for you?” What could merit the risk of turning his back to the _family_ , making you and Hanzo worth the risk?

Another exchange of glances between them, only slightly subtler.

Matsu, bringing both his elbows up to the table, chortled, “We here to talk about relevant information or fairy tales?”

“I want to know what’s important—”

“Well, that story isn't, kid.” The finality of his tone almost surprising, stern, if had he not looked so relaxed.

You let it go, but added it to the list. “Then what can you tell us— me?” Correcting yourself seemed important, assuming Hanzo bringing you into the conference was out of courtesy only. You assumed he would have already been informed somewhat but his desire to protect you on behalf of Genji, misplaced chivalry or responsibility, had forced him include you. This was your interview; all you had to do was ask the right questions.

Before you could, Mastu began again, an almost coy thread pulled through his words. “Been to Hanamura recently?” 

Only once since it all happened, also known as the night that threw things massively out of proportion. 

“Don’t answer that. I already know." He leaned forward into the table, shifting in his seat. "Do you know how I know? Do you have any ideas?"

You gave a slow shake of your head.

"Think back to last year. Think about how a certain someone left him to die. Looks like you pissed off the wrong guy...”

Claw.

“Oh, please don’t tell me _he’s_ still alive,” you groaned.

“How about instead of saying anything, I take another drink.”

You considered flood of blood in the castle’s courtyard— the lobbed-off hand like a haunted house prop, the silken shriek of Genji’s blade as it cut through the air. 

“Cockroach.”

Matsu and Hanzo nodded absently at your loving sentiment, as if to agree.

“What if I told you that he was the Elder's ideal replacement for this guy over here.” Matsu gave a nod to Hanzo, whose emotionless face had no sign of wear.

“You’re joking.” You said, flatly. "You have to be."

"Wish I was." Matsu finished the last of his beer, a bit of foam sat on the dip of his upper lip before he wiped it away. “Looks like they plan on making _him_ chairman, too. He was closest to Hanzo, after all...”

The lack of reaction from Hanzo spoke volumes. He had either already known or anticipated its occurrence.

You were allowed your surprise. “Someone actually decided to put that _train wreck_ in charge?”

Hanzo surreptitiously drank to that, as if to agree, having to sit quietly with the hatred for the patriarchs of his clan with eyes aflame. _This is_   _the infinite wisdom of our beloved Elders._

“The majority, surprisingly.” Matsu conceded, nodding. “He still has yet to be formally recognized but that hasn’t stopped him from acting as if it has been.”

“So, all things said and done, why does it matter?” Irritation, for them not allowing you to keep up, “No offense you two, but, this all makes about as much sense as a perfume commercial.”

Matsu hid amusement towards what you had said behind a gulp of beer, recognizing it wasn't the time or place for laughter.

“It gives him more authority than he should have.” Hanzo replied, gravely before the table fell silent in contemplation, everyone considering for their own reasons just why it was as severe as it suddenly had felt.

Matsu, placing both hands around the glass and staring down the cup, reluctantly began explaining, “That's right. I won't sugarcoat it for both of your sakes but... he’s made a lot of changes. _A lot._ If your father had been alive to see what he’s been up to...”

Hanzo leaned forward in his seat, ocher eyes growing at the lack of words. “He would what, Matsumoto?” The threat of the full name, the nickname dropped. _What has he done to my father’s empire?_ Momentarily, regret for expelling himself from the family and leaving the future of it out of his hands, watching another person take his rightful place as chairman. The hurt he felt was unacceptable.

“He’s sparking all these property deals for the favor of the Elders, trying to take over Hanamura by devouring businesses and forcing people out. He vows to turn the entire village into Shimada territory, on _paper_. Something like that, at least.”

“Has he gone _mad_?” Hanzo growled, a great torrent of frustration washing over him. His fingers grasped at nothing but curled and twitched into his palm, if only to give his anger some direction, to keep it from becoming destructive.

Matsu, forlorn chip in his speech, asked, “Was there ever a time he wasn’t?”

“So what if he’s into real estate now, what am I missing?” You asked, expecting disapproving looks but Matsu sympathetically offered an improvised reason.

“You see, Hanamura has always belonged to Shimada— figuratively. Something to the tune of, we were there first so it must be ours but that's never stopped rivals from trying to weasel into our territory. Now, with him snatching up businesses and properties, extorting and blackmailing until it’s signed over to him, he's messin' up the balance between civilians and the families. It's true that we haven't had issues with rivals lately, so, it looks like it’s a good idea. Maybe. But now we have new problems and you won't realize that unless you know better. Unless you see a guy like that for who he really is. Him havin' authorization over, not only over the Shimada Empire, but _an entire city_ scares the shit outta me... 'Scuse me... Anyways, kid, while the money he’s been raking in is one thing, it only adds to the bigger concern—“

“Power.” Hanzo finished. His eyes unfocused, staring at a ghost sitting at the table. You could only imagine of whom. “My father would have never let this happen.” His father’s voice then, from a short lifetime ago, standing in the courtyard with the castle looming behind them, _“Never uproot the tree that gives you shade.”_ He felt a frustrated groan twist out of him; _Hanamura was home— not a fucking monopoly._

Matsu bravely continued, “He’s allowed for a new subsidiary.”

Hanzo went pale at the thought.

Matsu had suddenly found words surprisingly difficult, “Ando Yanosuke has a family. Well, a two-bit gang into turning profits and beating anything that moves.”

In sudden flood of anger, a match lit and cast into gasoline, Hanzo looked about ready to flip the table over. “The Ando Family joined _our_ own?” His words rolled into a soft growl, “I should kill them _both_ for this.”

“Sorry to ruin your vacation, _Aniki_ , but I meant it when I said things were bad.”

 _Bad_ , that little lie again, that word that implied things could have had a better prognosis.

“Should I recognize that name?” You asked, a legitimate question for the reaction it caused, all things considered. You were met with the face of parents, awkward, explaining the birds and the bees.

“You see—“ slow and cautious from Matsu, “Ando Yanosuke is…”

“A bastard.” In one tone, Hanzo, crossing his arms over his chest.

Matsu attempted again, “Thank you, Aniki, a bastard. The Ando family are…”

“Snakes.”

Matsu, gestured with his palms open, _are you going to let me explain or not?_  

“Bastard snakes,” you repeated, as flatly as you could. _Thanks guys. Good talk._

“The name means something to us—“ _yakuza_ , you reminded yourself as Matsu explained, the blunted word worth a quick inhale, “— Ando Yanosuke being one of the highest paid assassins in all of Japan.”

“Didn’t they force Genji to carry out assassinations?” What was the point if there were already for-hire killers available? You knew the Shimada would have been able to afford it.

“Penitence.”

“Christ…”

“Kid, that’s how it goes.”

“We were trained.” Hanzo, suddenly disconnected, the mention of his brother. “… So, if we had to kill, we knew how.”

“Not in archery for the trophies, were you?” Matsu’s attempt at lessening the tension was appreciated but only by you. Hanzo only _tch_ -ed, like his brother would have and took another sip.

“The night you met Genji—“

 _Oh._ Heart, ahead of your brain by a second, leapt at the reminder of the club. Seeing him, belated understanding that his circle of friends had been suits. _Of course they were._ You could feel the bass though the floor again, the pulsation of the room.

“What about it?” You asked— a little too fast, a little too defensive.

Hanzo proceeded with appropriate caution; “I had sent him there on business.”

 _Oh. Shit._ The reminder made the thought clearer and sharper, daughter of the assassin like a detention and in white chalk over a black board, over and over in your head. That’s when the name meant something. “He was with his daughter?”

“Now the name means _something_ to you.”

The name meant the origin of the insult of bruises from Genji, the beating he had taken by Ando Yanosuke for standing up his daughter and leaving the club with you instead. You went to get ramen, of all things, after he cast her aside without a second thought.

“Ando has been making enough money on the properties to afford keeping his hands clean. He says he’s retired from his ways but—”

“— How can you trust a snake?” Hanzo interjected. Unsaid, choking the air all the same, the memory of having to watch Ando beating Genji until the precarious edge of consciousness. Choking still, for having watched how his bother had jackknifed into the force of the blow, coughed blood onto the tatami, then laughed, all as the assassin slammed his boot down again and again.

The conversation shifted, palpable then was the awareness that both Ando and Claw both disliked you, excessively and unreasonably so, being acknowledged without having it mentioned.

You mused, with a definitive shake of your head, “I’m glad I kicked him.”

“What?”

“Claw.”

“Who?”

“Claw?” Before you could remind yourself that people had names beyond your nicknames. You motioned to your eyebrow, the signature scar that he had running down his brow. “That guy. The next possible chairman.”

They nodded then, in recognition that Claw was as good as any nickname for him before Matsu asked again, “Wait, you said you did what now?”

“I kicked him. In the groin.”

Matsu wheezed. Hanzo laughed quietly to himself through the last of his cigarette. You felt the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, it must have been the first time you had ever heard him approach any sounds of amusement.

“Nice job, kid.”

“Are you allowed to say stuff like that about him?”

“Of course I can. Why, you planning on telling him?” Matsu teased before imitating cutting his own pinky off with an imaginary knife.

You snorted, covering your eyes with your hands— _that’s terrible—_ but couldn’t help deciding that maybe Matsu wasn’t as bad as you had thought he was. Maybe.

Matsu ordered another round, for him and Hanzo, announcing his intention of having to report back after. Following that, he explained that it would be hard to have to look Claw in the face, knowing full well about your last encounter.

“What are you going to tell him?” You asked, forgetting that was more or less the very nature of your gathering. “Do you have to mention that you saw me?”

“I’ll have to inform him I saw you but I don’t plan on mentioning that we went out to a bar together, with him too, as much as he’d love hearing that.”

Hanzo, shifting from his spectator role, spoke once more, “If he denies seeing you, they will send another in place of him next time.” Because there was always a next time and for credibility sake, apparently. Matsu’s reputation would not allow for him to come back without exactly what they sent him out for. They wanted to hear that you were traceable, that your day-to-day was predictable enough so that they could assume they had control.

Matsu confirmed, “I’ll tell them what they want to know and once I find out what they plan on doing next, we can go from there. Really, it might not even come down to anything.”

“So, the plan is to wait and see?” You asked, trying to ease up on the dissatisfaction that was rising in your tone.

“Not much else we can do in the meantime until they make their move...” Matsu spoke before tipping the glass up, finishing his second beer before wiping his mouth over his forearm. The sleeve of his expensive suit as good as a napkin.

Hanzo finished his sake too, setting the cup down soundlessly then dragging a hand over his face. He produced a cell phone out of one of his jacket’s pockets, located easily in comparison to the lighter, passed it over to you as he dragged his thumb across the screen to unlock it. “Your number.” Not a request, a command, but reasonably essential for future communication. Identifying the default settings, the lack of personality hinting at the possibly it was a burner, you entered your contact information and returning it to his still-open palm. You held brief eye contact with Matsu, assuming he would ask for your number as well.

“I don’t need yours.” Unsaid context— _incase_ _something goes wrong and they try to force it out of me_. “We’ll speak though this guy. Deal?”

You nodded.

Hanzo went to settle the check but Matsu refused and pushed a few banknotes towards the barkeep instead, insisting the drinks were on him. You thought, for a moment, how briefly depressing the whole scene was, as optimistic as it appeared. Hanzo was still suffering, Matsumoto was risking his neck, and that you would not be able to mention any of it to Genji.


	4. They

Displeasure was noted, obvious within the electronic cage of Genji’s voice. “Where the _hell_ have you been?”

_Says the person who went missing for a year._

He had all but fallen into you the moment you stepped through the doorframe, lunch from the café in tow and nearly toppling out of your arms in surprise. Your quick trip down to the streets below had taken longer than anticipated being that two new unlikely allies with an equally unlikely story had commandeered it. Even so, your estimation of being 15 minutes, at most, had stretched into nearly an hour— which proved to be _just long enough_ to send your cyborg companion into a state as noted by his deep inhales of irritation, further accentuated by the casings of his chest as they rose and fell.

“Well?”

_Don’t be suspicious._

“Gibraltar?” You offered, though a strained smile, thinking it to be a clever answer until you were met with silence. Semi-silence. His breathing was still labored enough, aggravated enough, to fill the room as you closed the door behind you.

It had not been your idea to go gallivanting off but all the same, it had not been an option either; one moment you were standing in line, the next you were watching Hanzo shoulder more than his fair share of responsibilities while Taiyaki indulged in a pale malt. _No, he’s not Tayaki anymore. Matsumoto_. A prompt from the nuance of his real name still settling; Matsu was your perceived enemy no longer and deserved proper recognition for the risk he took to speak with you, deciding _for that alone_ he seemed like a soild enough character to have in your corner...

All things considering, in the spontaneous meeting you had gained beneficial information but at the unfortunate cost of causing Genji great deal of stress. You could feel his glare, the equivalent of, unblinking and focused; the green of his visor neatly tinged with an orange or red in an unintentional expression of his complete loss of nerve. “Gibraltar?”

Although Genji had not really been able to criticize you for throwing a joke out in a tense moment without the dull slap of irony neutralizing the irritation in his voice, if only temporarily, because it was his signature. You were almost positive that if he had not been so worked up, he would have praised you for it.

Still, he folded his arms over his chest, that _I’m going to give you a piece of my mind_ stance with both feet firmly planted and chin tipped up with authority. “I almost went _down there_ to look for you.” On the surface, anger, but nothing lasting and so his tone began wavering before breaking. Concern then, fully, under each silver sound, “I was close to… I felt like I had to… I—“ He struggled, before shaking his head in rejection of words unable to form in his mess of thoughts. He let out another breathy exhale, artificial muscle of his bicep pulsing with tension. It was hard to be cohesive when the sentiment he was searching for provoked an even more unpleasant conversation.

The hand on the invisible leash pulled, shushed him. _Heel._

Even if he wanted to go looking for you, _they_ wouldn’t have let him, _they_ being the ones who rebuilt him and _they_ having emphatically strict rules and guidelines for his conduct while on a mission. He was permitted to move about “freely” but only at night and only if he were certain that no one would recognize him. And even then, only if he could stomach how they told him to handle witnesses.

His return was far from a homecoming. It was not innocent, nor was it simple. And even though you were his priority, you weren’t _theirs_.

His intensity turned you quiet though embarrassment, standing before him still fishing for a good enough cause to explain your absence— or, a good enough distraction. The truth was not a possibility then. Not for either of you.

You struggled. _I had drinks with Hanzo and Matsu and we talked about how the new acting-chairman of the Shimada crime syndicate is trying to forcefully take over Hanamura and possibly kill me. So, yeah, I guess Claw lived after all._

He struggled, too. _They sent me to kill my brother.  
_

The anger welled and bunched, having no exit save through his lungs. Pressuring you to speak again were the sharp sighs of his movement as his shoulders locked up. He spoke through a set jaw after another heavy exhale, “Where _were_ you?”

“I ran into someone and we ended up talking,” you stepped around him in a vaguely dismissive semi-circle as if he were a pylon on your way into the kitchen. As if it would remove you from his cross-examination.

He froze as you moved around him, your reaction observably stunning him, then turned stiffly into your direction as you placed the recycled paper bag onto the counter and unrolled the top. You pulled out a few individually wrapped items, things he used to order and consume both happily and _loudly._

“I bought all your favourites.”

Genji stood solidly and unmoving, still.

“I hope they’re as good as you remember—“ Painful in its own way to say out loud but rolled off your tongue before properly gauging the comment, as you kept trying to bury the true reason of your nonappearance.

The kitchen had grown steadily uncomfortable with his solid, quiet presence; no longer was his breathing audible. He was also without the hushed symphony of pneumatics, the little gasps his body made when he moved just from standing motionless for so long.

You tipped your head shyly towards him after setting everything from inside the takeout bag on the countertop. Examining him lent no indication of his thoughts, his body language giving you nothing and only bringing forward the unwanted reminder of how you had learned to understand him before from the slightest of his expressions. Squinting when you said something corny, strain in the corners of his lips when he tried to deny a smirk, flutter of lashes to feign innocence, soft pout of contemplation. All gone.

"Looks like we’re going to have to work on this communication thing..."

“You scared me.” His voice was smaller, less convinced of itself before growing. “I was angry because I was scared. It may be irrational to worry so much about you... but I do.”

A full flush to the face in the sentence, the embarrassment that you were attempting to side-step. Quick as anything, said, dropped there in the space between you. The noble thing to do then was to apologize and back down.

“Look, I didn’t mean to make you worried—”

“— But you did.” The fear had come from his first-hand understanding of what could have happened to you then, for what his _family_ was capable of with a luxurious 90-minute timeframe.

“I’ll be more careful. Next time.” You offered. From the way that awkwardness refused to ease up, you were both aware it was only said because the moment called for a promise.

Knowing too that a _next time_ was forever an unavoidable thing, he murmured. “Please do.”

Then, he moved, half-swallowed by afternoon light pouring in from the balcony windows he had left open, pressing his head into his palm as if to alleviate pressure in his temples. He was tragically not without his patterns, everything that so clearly decided he was more person than machine. The awful, terrible, but wonderful reminder that it had been the man with juniper green hair and mischievous eyes, the same person whose reflexes had secured a reminder of your first meeting in pigment staining the pages of the book, forever leaving the outline of a blossom next to the green dragon. Even though all your previous experience with him denied that he had believed what you had said about being careful from the flicker of transparency in his stance, you left it. He had forfeit his anger and stood vulnerable under your gaze, loosened, tilting the visor towards you once more.

The body you had slept beside— and under, for a time— had found you once again in a sudden rigid embrace, stepping forward to surround you. Low, electric purr of a voice explained, “I would not be able to forgive myself if something happened to you. I would be so upset—“

“I know.“ You cut in, resting your cheek against him from how tightly he held onto you. "It's okay—"

He interrupted, as you had. “Upset _and_ hungry...”

You imagined the ritualistic wagging of his brow and impish flicker of a smirk somehow about him as you looked up to the plates, angled down towards your face. Teasing was his autograph, after all.

 

You sat by him on the couch, having your late-breakfast in slow and methodical bites until you stopped and set your food down on the low table before you.

“Full already?” His head swiveled from the TV to you, greeted by the reflection of the game show in the curvature of his faceplates— some program that he had always enjoyed watching that had caused him to rumble and murmur with contained amusement, at times sputtering and shaking with a silly laugh.

“I feel weird eating this in front of you when you haven’t touched yours. Are you sure you don’t mind?” 

He gestured, _it’s okay_ , with a single hand before dropping it to your thigh, holding it to instill some kind of reassurance that would have been apparent in his eyes.

“Would it help if I closed my eyes?” You asked, but not without the thoughts running wildly away from you. “I’ll look away. Or, no, I’ll sit like this!” You began demonstrating, turning your body away and sitting with your back to him, legs slung over the side. You strained to tip your head back as you spoke, nearly falling into him, as he prepared to catch you, “Good?”

“It’s fine…” He half-groaned, half-laughed at your enthusiasm. The thought of removing the plates sheltering his face was still daunting and just as much of a task for him to inspire your patience with him. 

“I could leave the room?” 

“No,” a shake of his head, “I like you sitting with me.”

“What if I left the apartment? Would you eat then?”

“Absolutely not, not again. I would worry.”

The balcony, his roost. You imagined him as he had sat out earlier, in meditative silence, the sun affectionately pouring itself over him, drawing your attention to all the details you had not yet discovered as he looked down over the railing into the streets for you.

A pang of guilt hit you like a jolt of electricity.

“I mean, if you’re sure…” You spoke as you readjusted, claiming your previous spot next to him.

“As comfortable as I am with you, I know I will have much to explain once these come off so _yes_ , I am delaying. Right now I want to enjoy simply being with you.” Though once he had finished talking, his stomach growled and protested all that he had just attempted to explain.

“Genji…”

_I’m sure all of this business needs some kind of fuel._

“I know you. You’ll take a nap, eventually. In fact, right here, in my lap…” He stretched with his hands over his head, suddenly conscious of his poor, slumped posture. He began improvising through what could have been a grin. “That's when I’ll eat.”

“You’re a cruel man to deny me of your face, aren’t you?”

“And who says I still have a face, huh?” He tapped a finger against the plates. Priming you for the “shock” worked at an inverse; the more he tried to deny you would like what you saw, the more curious you became.

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

“Two.”

“Ah-hah! Eyes.”

“But it’s always two, isn’t it? I could have guessed.”

“Then you’re lucky." _Little shit._ "Also, you must have a mouth too because you’re using it now to mess with me.”

“Are you asking because you’re trying to imagine me now? Tell me, am I still handsome?”

"Even when I can't see you, you're handsome. I can sense it."

You placed both hands gently to either side of his face to keep his head steady, staring hard into the horizontal strip of green. Genji adjusted the intensity for you, dimming the violent glow to something soft and easy to focus on. Like mood lighting.

“Do you still have eyebrows?”

He said nothing, allowing for the silence to deepen, intrigued by your observation and trying to prolong the touch.

“Are you giving me _the_ eyebrow right now, _Mr. Shimada_?”

Genji began to hum a _yes_ in response but melted into a laugh, _god bless_ , and pressed his hands against your palms. “Have I ever told you how tenacious you are? Always so determined. I’m impressed, really.”

“You’re easily impressed, you know that right?”

He nodded, replying with genuine adoration. “Only by you... You and your legendary crane game skills.”

“Oh, that's right...” You smiled fondly before dissolving into thoughts of 16-Bit Hero, the arcade of purples and reds, the almost too-efficient air-conditioning, the furious tapping of buttons from all corners. “Would you say that a pro, like me, is equally or _more_ talented than let’s say, oh, I don’t know, a _ninja_?”

He ineffectually pretended to scold you, gentle laughter breaking the effect.

“I’m not a ninja…”

“No?”

“I hung up my shuriken.” Genji barely managed to reply before snorting at his own joke, “I'm a professional nightlight now.”

You groaned before leaning into his side, laughing and shaking your head. "You’re a professional dork is what you are."

The remainder of the evening was as close to normal as you had felt in a long time until you heard your phone ringing and realized it sounded so far away because you were sleeping. Waking was a strange combination of _this is definitely not my mattress_ and _what time is it_. Outside was a water-colour, all lavender once again with the moon striking against the sky. You had, as predicted by Genji, fallen asleep in his lap with the last thing you remember being a rumble from his chest from the laughter he was suppressing from the TV show.

There was crumpled up cellophane on the low table in front of the couch where the food used to be. He had done exactly as he said and ate once you napped, only he had fallen asleep too with the plates set back over his face and the remote at the other side of him. You decided he had not meant to fall asleep either from the steady glow about him, in full bloom.

You carefully picked yourself up from out his lap and darted towards the sound of your phone. An unknown caller past midnight would have made you anxious if you had not just given your number out to a certain someone.

You whispered sharply, with predictive insight, pressing the phone to your face. “Hanzo? Is that you?”

His low voice was without the restriction of a whisper. “Matsumoto will be returning for surveillance tomorrow.” A full stop, five slow seconds. “I apologize if this call is ill-timed.”

“When you say _tomorrow_ do you mean _later today_?”

Hanzo continued as if you had not said anything. “There is much to discuss.”

“So, where are we meeting?” You asked as you peered over your shoulder to steal a glance at the still-sleeping cyborg. His head touchingly resting over the back of the couch in exhaustion, the darkened living space around him cast in strange shadows by the faint green halos.

He replied, “I will text you the address later.”

Then, without uttering a goodbye, you heard a  _click_ and the dial tone buzzing in your ear.


	5. Black Coral

“I think I’m lost,” you admitted over the not-so-distant hissing and crackling from the kitchen as chefs masterfully crafted lunches for their patrons, all of whom sat hunched over their beers, busied with newspapers or the screens of their devices. No one was interested in your presence or even so much glanced towards the door as you shuffled in, all besides the waiter that you spoke to.

It didn’t take much investigation to come to the conclusion that you were not in the irezumi parlor that Hanzo had described— a place that you had anticipated by the address he gave you. 

After the initial late-night call to set up your meeting, you had returned to the couch and settled back into Genji’s lap. Come morning, you woke to the discovery that he had carried you back to your bed and fallen asleep with his body sheltered around yours, versus a confusion of limbs in every direction that you were accustomed to. As you opened your eyes, finding bands of warm light playing over his cool plates, so he cooed a _good morning_. His first sounds after a long slumber were soft and drawn out but lined with satisfaction from a good night’s rest.

You had a quiet morning; neither of you feeling inclined to speak— only touch, indolence in your slow blinks and his gentle glow— until you heard your phone buzz with a text message. Remembering the less-idyllic version of reality, you understood that it was likely directions from the older brother that he had pledged to send you when you had last spoke.

“I have an appointment later today,” you mentioned to Genji, who was watching your skin raise in response to dragging the pads of his fingers across it, with what you hoped was a casual tone of voice, “I’ll be gone for a little bit this afternoon but I’ll make sure to grab us something to eat on my way back. Is that alright?”

And even as you expected resistance, he simply nodded to show his understanding and said nothing more about it as his fingers, without pause, continued to trace over you. There was no way for you to gauge how he honestly felt in his mechanical silence but you imagined an air of anxiousness about him anyway and tried to keep him at ease by staying in bed with him until you assumed you’d be late.

So there you were then, a little past noon, at your so-called “appointment” as you looked around the building dubiously. _Did Hanzo text me the wrong address?_ Even so, confirmation was not viable then as you had not only forgotten your phone at home in your rush to leave, you had _what you thought was_ enough sense in the moment to preemptively clear the evidence, just in case. The embarrassment of Genji finding messages and calls from Hanzo would be nothing short of a disaster, considering his reaction when both brothers had turned up at your apartment. You’d rather hurl your phone off the balcony, and would if it came down to that, than have to suffer through a conversation explaining your business with his estranged family.

The waiter, whose achromatic hair was so carefully pulled back and shiny from product, appeared to be not only incredibly proud of his well-groomed appearance but that he took his job very seriously. He stood before you, subduing his initial response to what you had said in his unblinking gaze before he finally offered, with just enough professionalism to sound bored, “Would you like to know the lunch specials?”

Universally, polite code for _what the hell are you talking about?_

“No, thank you—,“ you replied quickly. “Although, maybe you can help me. I’m looking for a place around here that does irezumi...” More specifically, it was _supposed_ _to be_ in the very spot your were standing, but you had instead found yourself in a hole-in-the-wall, a restaurant hidden between similar venues and no different from its neighbors aside from the name.

The waiter scoffed suddenly and stiffly at your remark, hushing you entirely, “Well, I certainly I wouldn't know anything about _that!_ ” He peered over his shoulder, mid-sentence, only to look back with a different expression, wide-eyed and animate. He didn’t have to say so but on every feature regardless: _SHHHH!_  He thrust a menu into your hands his voice rose once more in thespian bravado, “But! If I may be so bold as to make a suggestion… Perhaps, you'd like to order number 99.”

You peered down the laminated paper he had given you, finding 99 without a description— _a misprint, maybe_ — lodged between other items. You asked, almost cringing at yourself for being ignorant at whatever it was he was trying to make apparent, “Do I want that?” _I don’t know what this is about but I sure as hell did not get the memo._

He took the menu back, securing it under an arm before adjusting his bowtie. With his eyes flicking back into a discrete roll, he muttered to himself, “What are they doing sending _outsiders_ here? Are they trying to get us shut down?”

Your nostrils flared, embarrassment involuntarily rushing over your face courtesy of his flustered remarks. “I’m sorry?”

In an overemphasized exhale, the waiter’s hands fell from his collar. “Well, you know now, _I suppose._ Anyways, if you’ll follow me...”

And then he was off, like a toy train on a track, stepping past you full of motivation and gusto in full comparison to the lethargic energy of the restaurant front. Charging through the swinging panel doors leading to the back, you were met with a blast of steam rising of a giant wok, fire from a sudden flash fry of eggplant as a bored chef attended the stove, another as they crisscrossed a cut of meat with a gyūtō in their pinched grip. You hurried to keep close behind him, breathing in a strong aroma of peanut oil and ginger as soon as you had clattered into the small kitchen.

You watched as the waiter expertly wove himself through the staff, likely a common event by the unbothered faces that cleared out of your path, before taking a small golden key from the breast pocket of his tailored vest. He halted in front of a door labeled “cleaning supplies”— which was, as you expected from how the mere seconds before had played out— not as it seemed.

The waiter pealed the door open after the dull click of it unlocking, revealing a creaky old wooden staircase, veering into a sharp angle and seemingly evaporating into shadow. The air below was cooler, feeling a noticeable difference especially as you stood in the heat from the effort of multiple elements on high in the crammed space.

“I take it this is number 99,” you mused, your eyes trying to strain past the corner and its enveloping blackness to see where the passage lead to before checking the waiter’s face once more, pinned with haste.

He sighed, again, gesturing that you go down the steps sooner rather than later and that he was finished with your conversation. You managed a small _thank you_ before descending the stairs, holding onto a wobbly railing for support as the aged wood under your feet creaked. You placed a tremendous amount of faith in Hanzo then that he hadn’t been leading you into a bad situation as the veil of secrecy about the passage suggested you reconsider. The surrounding walls were painted a matte black and only exaggerated the dark around you; without a guiding light above, you felt like you had been walking through an illusion until soft bursts of illumination from hanging fluorescents flushed the space at the bottom step, lending much needed detail to your surroundings. The tattoo parlor was clearly— having seen it then, unfolding as the stairs gave out into a poured cement floor— _beneath_ the restaurant.

Chopping and conversation from the kitchen had been enveloped by the snap and pop of a record unevenly spinning on a turntable, the sound of a dusty album filling the room and lending the likeness of an old black and white film. Brightly coloured propaganda-like posters and traditional-styled art were slapped up around the windowless walls. Overstuffed leather sofas in unusual gemstone shades sat overtop elaborate silk rugs. Delicate paper fans were opened and propped up along with floating framed pictures of serious faces and half-naked bodies, showcasing the craft of the artists.

You moved, gawkily, unable to focus on one thing before another demanded your attention. The studio was an eclectic mix of style and feelings, as opulent as it was makeshift, an interesting collage of themes.

A familiar voice rose from across the space.

“Any trouble finding the place, kid?”

The only person seeming to be in the room then was Matsumoto, occupying one of the few beds and sitting with his body turned away from you, unintentionally revealing his tattoos. Most of his exposed flesh had been transformed though vibrant inks, leaving only a section untouched with half-sleeves that ended just above his elbows. The most prominent design of the lot was a large bull across his back. It was striking; all long horns and sleek black coat, rogue by its expression. On closer inspection, long since healed but displacing the animal all the same, a giant scar ran from under his rib to his spine.

It was then when you had stepped close enough to realize that your appraisal had delayed the registration that he was not wearing pants. Your gaze veered off, instinctually.

“What did I just walk into?”

“What did you walk into?" Matsu laughed over the crackling record. "What do you think?”

“Well until a moment ago I thought I was in a Chinese food restaurant, so… You tell me."

“Yeah, now look at you! Fell down the rabbit hole...” Matsu joked, finally looking over a shoulder, oblivious that from where you stood he appeared to be completely exposed.

You cautiously advanced, still wary for his lack of clothing but then relieved to find a white cotton fundoshi coving all that was necessary. You felt ridiculous, your ears finally allowing you to recognize the evident buzz of a tattoo gun.

“Matsumoto—“

“After our history— still sorry, by the way— Matsu is fine.”

You corrected yourself and started over. “Matsu, Hanzo forgot to mention any of this…”

“Did he?” Matsu couldn’t hold in his amusement. “I bet Tomo loved that.”

“If Tomo is the name of the waiter I spoke to then yeah. He was thrilled. I probably made his day."

“Well, Hanzo hardly has time to do anything— let alone think and Tomo is far too professional to let it bother him." Matsu shrugged as he reasoned. "Anyways kid, come check this out, would’ya?" 

The less obvious of what he wanted you to check out could have been the black coral in his hand he was carving away at with a small knife, the rough face of a small round cat emerging. The second and decisively more evident of the two, a bald man with tortoise-shell glasses sitting adjacent to the tattoo bed on a rolling stool, wearing a white Henley with the sleeves rolled up. He was holding the buzzing tattoo gun, birthing an intricate design over Matsumoto’s meaty upper thigh.

The bald man stopped working, feeling you fix your eyes on on him. His head rolled from side to side, cracking— telling of the session’s length— before he directed his attention towards you. You expected for him to be course, but his voice was kind. A spiked labret piercing bent about his slight smile. “Yo.”

Matsu took it upon himself to introduce you and explain that Inoue had been _the_ tattoo guy for their family. Inoue was known for his ability of understanding and executing precicely his client’s visions— _seriously, he’s psychic or something, but too modest to say it himself_. Having apprenticed for the master who had done Sojiro’s legendary ink, Inoue was unofficially considered affiliated with the Shimada family, an inherited sense of value because of the high regard of the artist who trained him 20-some years ago— astonishing for the man you had pegged to be no older than 25 when he was pushing 45.

Matsu spoke without the grit of discomfort as if he couldn’t feel the needle's pulse. “He’s like our adopted brother.”

Notoriety that came with his occupation and the status of clientele who frequented his shop had made tattooing underground necessary, _quite_ _literally_ — especially since his location was outside Hanamura, infringing on rival territory.

Inoue wheeled back over to his workstation, fussing over his supplies before adjusting the lamp angled towards his design with his gloved hands. His cheeks were hollowed in focus and his gaze weathered like that of an expert fisherman.

You admired the outline of the dragon Inoue had been working on, unsurprised— _of course, dragons_ — as the familiar imagery made your heart flutter as if you were conditioned to. “Oh, _wow_. You’re good.” You whispered your praise, as Inoue gave another thin smile to himself before rolling back towards Matsu. With all the precision of a surgeon, he continued but not before a nod of appreciation towards what you had said.

Inoue spoke, his voice drawn out with the majority of his concentration channeled into fine movements of his dominant hand, “I like to hurt people in beautiful ways.”

Of course, anyone that spent the majority of their day in a windowless room dealing with yakuza would not be without quirks in their personality.

Matsu pulled a face, wagging a finger. “You know, comments like that will keep this place empty.”

A toothy smile cracked over the artist that he fought to hold back. “Are you sure you want to make me laugh while I’m doing this?"

Not known to you was how the tattoo beds at 99 were booked steadily months in advance. Everyone with appointments in the afternoon had been shuffled around at Hanzo’s last-minute request. Inoue had said nothing of the difficulty it had taken to reschedule them, nor would he.

“Okay fine, but, let me say one more thing!” A pause, Matsu was quick to debate, “It’s not _that_ painful, you know—”

“Not yet,” Inoue’s eyes shined.

You lingered by the two of them as you watched the details come to life with sudden absorption, trying to put a finger on why his art had seemed so familiar. You began considering if it would be equally as enthralling if Matsu had not been getting dragons until the possibility became a strange thought in itself. _“They’ve always been important to us.”_ Genji’s voice in your mind as real as the record on the turntable, recalling a moment in the castle in clipped detail.

“Do you have any tattoos?” Inoue asked with polite interest as he used the back of his free hand to adjust his glasses, pulling you out of thoughts of lacquered wood, tatami, and the complex, earthy scent of the Shimada’s ancestral home.

Before you could respond, Matsu, who had since gone back to his carving of black coral, interjected, “She’s not here to be a canvas for you.”

“No?” Inoue asked without glancing away from his outline, wiping at it with a damp paper towel. The ink was messy but he had been trained to see though it, to handle it, and did so without strain.

Finally turning away from the bed to sink down onto the closest couch, deciding to get good and comfortable as you waited, you admitted, “He’s right, I’m only here as a spectator.” _Well, that and to talk about this Claw-wants-me-dead business, I guess._

“Oh, I see.” Inoue gave you a secretive smile before busing himself again. “A pity.”

“She’s too good for you.” Matsu grumbled before blowing softly at the carving, working on the intricacies of miniature paws. His statement, _too good_ , referring to your civilian status and implicitly understood as _not yakuza,_ _not one of us_.

Inoue glanced up and over, you and him making brief eye contact. Unlike Tomo the waiter, he hadn’t seemed the least bit disturbed that you had wandered into his shop— but all the same, allowed for you to be curious.

“I only work on the bad ones, do I? The likes of you, Matsu?”

“I’m not all bad...” Matsu laughed to himself, taking a moment to admire the cat and rolling it in his palm.

The song that was playing fizzed out, creating the first bout of silence since your appearance. The only sound left, with the three of you quiet, was the buzzing of the needle. Your attention drifted as you relaxed further, beginning a search for familiar faces in the pictures hung over the walls before the next track dreamily welled up from the amplifier.

“Inoue here doesn’t have a single tattoo, do ya?” Matsu carried on, suddenly, leaving Inoue to nod soundlessly, “Not a single one, yet, he’s tattooed just about every Shimada clan member I can think of _and_ every other operation under us too.”

Inoue hummed, “I love a good irony.”

It was then when the steps began creaking and a body shuffled down. In with the wafting smell of fried vegetables came Hanzo, wearing a similar outfit to the last time you had seen him, cupping a ceramic bowl in one hand and chopsticks in the other. He stopped at the bottom step, dipping his head slightly to the room, greeting everyone with his deep voice.

You were first to talk back. “You’re late.”

Hanzo attempted to ignore you, his praxis, but answered as he sat near you on the same couch after setting his food down on the table before him. He brushed the single section of hair hanging forward in his face away, not tied up and back, giving you a second or two of intense eye contact with his sleepless eyes.

“You were early.”

_Shit. Okay. Nevermind._

“Aniki, what’ya have there?” Matsu asked, suddenly interested.

“I was hungry,” Hanzo responded, shuffling in his seat towards the edge of the couch as he began pulling his jacket off.

“It smells really good. Can I try some?” 

_Tch._ He freed himself, shrugging the jacket off entirely before replying. “Get your own.”

Inoue’s tight-lipped smile proved his amusement over their banter; you assumed a similar face too. It was oddly nice to sit there, included, with circumstances aside— strange consolation to you for the year you had spent alone. The three of them spoke but said nothing of weight to your situation, purely sharing non-vital information and rumors. You felt your limbs growing heavy at the rhythmic assurance of clicking utensils as Hanzo ate and Miles Davis, an audible sedative for what it lent to the studio’s atmosphere. Feeling safe enough to drift off, began to allow yourself to—

“Oi!” Matsu called out suddenly, towards you. “Still awake?”

“Yeah.” _Hardly._

“What’s your opinion?”

“On what?”

With a pause, for an intentional effect or not, he asked, “Dragons, kid. You believe in them?”

You peaked an eye open. “What’s there to believe in?”

Hanzo snubbed out a cigarette from next to you in the ashtray next to his empty bowl, leering towards Matsumoto. There was something cruelly too close to truth then, stepped around like adults speaking in code in front of a child.

You realized that both Inoue and Matsu were pulling faces, too.

“They aren’t _just_ legends, kid.”

“Let her think what she wants,” Hanzo said with startling annoyance, the leather crinkling as he readjusted and leaned back, staring up towards the ceiling. Just as easily, he could have said _this is not a conversation we will be having._

“Someone told me once: it’s wise to be skeptical—“ in a proud manner of fact voice, recalling the words.

“Not about dragons, it isn’t.” Finally catching a glimpse of Hanzo’s expression narrowing, Matsu veered off into a new direction. “Who told you that anyway?”

“Genji.”

“Ah,” Matsu responded, sounding momentarily deflated.

Hanzo reflectively lit another cigarette at the sudden mention of his brother’s name. With his gaze darkening and flicking off to the wall, he avoided the conversation by making eye contact with a painted oni mask.

"Genji..." Inoue straightened his back and for the numerous time, pushing the glasses up the bridge of his nose with the back of his hand, remaining concentrated on his work but his mind drifting, “I was so proud of his sleeve.”

“You did Genji’s sleeve?” You asked, finally realizing what it was about the outline that struck you.

_That’s why Matsu’s dragon looks so familiar._

“Hanzo’s too.” Matsu arched an eyebrow, holding onto a story too good not to share. “Did Genji ever tell you how he got it?”

“It never came up, actually.”

“Apparently he told Inoue that Sojiro was cool with it.”

“If I know Genji, I bet he wasn’t.”

“Exactly. This happened right after Hanzo had his done because seeing his made Genji get all jealous. Squirrelly, you know. I guess they were supposed to be a rite of passage or something… Anyways, their father had Inoue here and his old master draw them out in advance so the designs were ready to go when he felt it was time.”

Hanzo, determined avoid becoming a part of the recollection, had no addition.

“Genji convinced me he had permission.” Inoue stopped, tattooing and all, recalling the moment and acting out the motions, “I had just started the outline when I looked up to see his father, the head of the Shimada clan, right there on that the bottom step.” He gestured with his chin.

“And what did he do once he saw he was caught? Played it off like it was nothing.” Matsu imitated, poorly, but as best as his voice would allow, “ _Hey pops! It looks cool, right?_ ”

You felt the growing smile on you, trying to keep it down for the sake of maintaining the appearance that you were still grieving. _What a little shit._ Speaking about Genji so fondly and openly made your thoughts turn to him. There was relief in knowing that once you left the shop and returned to your apartment, you’d find him waiting for you. A short spell of guilt nagged you to tell the room he was alive but knew decidedly it would be the highest betrayal of all and left it be. 

“ _Uwaah_ ,” Inoue shook his head, “My entire life flashed before my eyes then.”

“I’ll bet,” Matsu agreed.

Hanzo wished he could dissolve onto the gutters of the record. Genji was still an open wound.

A few minutes after, the tattoo gun ceased buzzing. Inoue had finished the outline and excused himself to go upstairs for a quick lunch break, leaving the three of you then to have your private conversation at long last.

Matsu relocated himself, hobbling over, proudly— still essentially naked— sitting his bare ass on the sofa nearest to you and Hanzo. “Let’s make this quick… It’s a good day so far but I’m about to spoil it.”

Hanzo, seemingly unfazed by his nudity, gestured towards Matsu’s thigh, “Amazing, as I expected.”

Matsu stopped, beamed, “Isn’t it? Inoue really outdid himself.”

“Matsu?” You cut into their exchange.

“What’s up, kid?”

“What do you mean, spoiling the day?” _It’s my life we’re talking about here so can we save the compliments for later?_

“Right, right…” Matsu leaned forward into his company, suddenly serious, carefully resting his elbows over his knees to avoid his fresh ink. “Let’s start with good news: they aren’t going to kill you. Not yet.”

“Fantastic.” _I’m practically jumping out of my seat here with joy._

“What’dya call him before? _Claw_ was it? Yeah, well Claw can’t get anyone in the Shimada family to come after you. They’re all pissin’ their pants over it, knowing they’ll deal with this guy after.” Matsu glanced over at Hanzo, whose glazed expression neither confirmed nor denied that he was amused.

You were suddenly strangely conscious of how indebted you were to Hanzo, as much as he was challenging to understand. While it was true that Genji would do anything in his power to keep you safe, reminded by how he had been confined to your apartment you understood he had his limits. And then, _yes, Hanzo, but Matsu too_.

You looked from one to the other, grateful that even as neither _had_ to help you, both made the effort to. 

“So, seeing that Claw can’t get even the rank-and-file guys to get this done— because as you already know, Aniki, most of them will even fuck up a collections job—“ a pause settled, as if he had bitten his tongue. He clasped his hands together, “He's trying to persuade Ando himself to do it.”

“Matsu, you should have mentioned this to me before,” Hanzo spoke with some degree of disbelief.

You rose to your feet as if it would help tame sudden overriding panic, “I'm pretty damn sure I remember you calling him one of the top assassins in Japan before. Please tell me you’re joking.” _Nope. No way._

“Hey, both of you are really bunchin' up _my loincloth_ here. Let me finish properly explaining before you get all bent out of shape.”

You reluctantly sat back down in your spot, adrenaline looping through you and ready to disarm your rational thoughts. _Stay calm? No thanks!_

“I'm not kidding, but, I'm not all that worried either. Ando doesn’t want to do it. He’s not like Claw. He’s already considered you're not worth the hassle. You’re basically off the hook until Claw can convince him to make the hit— which he won’t.” Matsu grinned.

After a long silence, considering what was said and what it should have meant to you, you finally asked, “So, I have a question.”

“Yeah?”

“Am I supposed to be relieved?”

Matsu gave you a hopeless look. _Kid, weren't you listening? You're home free._

“I wonder if I could talk to Ando?” Hanzo’s voice rose, unsure of himself as he asked before gaining confidence and pulling a leg over his knee. His back straightened, eyelids lowering, one corner of his lips pulled down in thought.

“Talk or _talk_?” Matsu shot.

“What’s the difference?” You had to ask.

“Well, one is talking. The other is bashing his face in or something.”

“Talk.” Hanzo solidified, with something close to annoyance, “As much as I hate to admit it, he would be our best option—”

“What’s there to talk about, Aniki?”

Hanzo’s seriousness was disarming, “A permanent solution.” He fished for another cigarette in his discarded jacket, lighting it swiftly. “Ando is a snake but he must have a weak point. If we find that weakness, we may be able to negotiate with him.”

_Negotiate_ being a transparent stand-in for exploit or blackmail.

Matsu clapped his hands together, excitedly, scaring you into sitting up straighter, “Let me see if I get this crazy plan of yours... You want to go around the acting chairman's back—“

“Yes."

“To have a “talk” with one of the only guys around that's _possibly_ mad enough to take you on—“

“Yes.”

“And you think you can do this before he decides to act on Claw's demands?" 

“Exactly that.”

“I like it!” Mastu clapped again, with enthusiasm, shocking you for the second time.

_But would it really be that easy?_

“I know it will not be simple…” Hanzo began again, with impeccable timing towards your own concerns. “I would have to be there in person. _We_ would have to go…” 

“We?” You asked, knowing he meant you.

“We?” Matsu echoed, knowing he was not involved but suddenly doubting the genius of the plan.

“Where is the Ando family office?”

“It’s still being set up. Bugger has expensive taste and gutted the top floor of the Kawashima building after Claw ripped the deed out of the old landlord's hands. Ando has his guys doing renovations. Can you believe that? _Renovations_. I guess it makes sense, seeing that his boys are about as sharp as a hammer...” Matsu hid a laugh at his own observation in a small cough.

_Tch._ You caught Hanzo’s eye roll, him seemingly always needing to adapt to some condition, before he continued, “Where does he spend his time?”

Matsu looked reluctant then, passing a hand over his scalp and looking down to the floor in clear avoidance, “Well, I’ll tell you— but, you’re not gonna like it.”

Although it was never said as the squeaks of the wooden steps advised you to wrap up the conversation. Inoue, the cause of the disruption, returned with a bowl in each hand. Closely following behind was Tomo, the waiter, delivering two more in addition. 

“Pardon me,” Inoue spoke, sensing he was interrupting as the three of you had all turned towards him, “I thought we could all use a break.”

“Damn right,” Matsu was only too pleased to see noodles— that and maybe partially relieved that he was saved from sharing.

Hanzo, still full from before, offered his portion to Matsu and instead requested sake. Tomo went back upstairs to grab some but not before bowing deeply towards Hanzo and even going so far to give you a small but authentic smile in which you decided to read _I'm sorry I misjudged you_.

After eating, Matsu recollected himself at the tattoo bed, set on maximizing the amount of work he could get done before returning to Hanamura. Hanzo stood up, examining the studio’s relics— Inoue's severely outdated and rare LP collection— pulling out different artists to decide what would be played next. Inoue gathered his tebori tools and readied his elaborate stainless steel grip, the colour sharing the likeness of a ripe clementine. 

“Ready?”

“The fun really starts now, doesn’t it?” Matsu groaned, preemptively tensing his jaw.

“My fun, you mean. Let’s begin.” 

With slower and slower blinks, between your fullness and the buttery smooth voice of whomever it was DJ Hanzo had picked out, you entertained the thought of sleeping once again. Tomo, since coming back down with sake in a ceramic flask for Hanzo, had left enough cups for everyone in the room.

Hanzo poured you a shot and without pressure, set it in front of you.

You took it, felt the warmth in your throat as you swallowed, and knew sleep was nearer than before.

You watched the dragon come to life in well-known shades of ink, blood speckling and surfacing from the sha-sha-sha of the jig, until you were dreaming, peacefully— of you and Genji in the balmy island weather _of what might have been_ Gibralter, accompanied by the piano from the last track before you had slipped away...

But the world was far from at ease.

Hanamura was a ticking timebomb.

 

Waking was as disorientating as ever without windows or access to your phone to gauge the time. You told the room, though a yawn, that you had to be heading back.

Matsu called you over before you left, placing the black coral cat he had been carving into your palm. You felt its smoothness, looked at its plump little body and paws. “I know calicos are the most lucky but black ones lure away evil spirits. If you happen to see Claw or Ando and we’re not around, just throw this at ‘em.”


	6. Free Nerve Endings

“Do you want to feel pain, Genji?”

A question the doctor had not wanted to pose, having specifically delayed asking after seeing him bare the worst kind imaginable all the way through to a state where he felt none at all, loaded to the teeth with sedatives and hopelessly unsure of who _or what_ he was.

He acted as if he hadn’t heard her question, awareness pooling about his lap. Neck stiff, body rigid against the mattress that bent to support him as he sat.

Unable to take back what she had said, she continued in her gentle accent. “It _really_ is encouraging that our experimental procedure was so successful... As we previously discussed, your prototype effectively relays pressure and touch. In time, we will preform a series of tests and make necessary corrections...” A pause, the words fluttering with a nervous excitement she tried to conceal. “Until then, all that I ask of you is that you rest.”

Air hissed out of his nose under the barrier of the simple oxygen mask. He remained facing forward with refusal to acknowledge her even as his expression appeared to suggest a burning desire to argue.

She advanced him cautiously, folding her clipboard to her chest. “While you rest, I hope you will consider my proposal. Pain may assist in the normalization and integration of your cybernetics. You are welcome to consult me on the matter as much as you like but it is not a decision I intend to make for you.”

She continued still, laying out her concerns as an ethical dilemma as she became occupied with the delicate machinery that offset where he had been recovering. But at the time, Genji was half-listening at best, freshly grieving the loss of his tattooed limb.

His dominant arm had been severed narrowly above his elbow in a transhumeral amputation, replaced with a crude series of segmented artificial muscle. The head and neck of the dragon remained where the sleeve bled into his chest and he had been achingly conscious that the separation was all too symbolic for where his family had left him. What remained of the ink rose mounfully from surgical dressings that were carefully wound around where the synthetic part met his natural flesh.

Genji, to his own shock, felt tears forming. He furiously blinked them away.

“And what part of this, exactly, is ethical, Doctor Zeigler?” He snarled, finally looking out of the corner of his then-stinging eyes towards her.

She gave a sympathetic nod towards his resentful tone, reeling back clinical fascination to the best of her abilities. She understood she was without immediate proof that his skills would become completely aggrandized while he was recuperating from the first of many surgeries.

Perhaps in time he would find value in his cybernization

“I will let you think on it,” she spoke evenly in contrast, trying her best to not appear outwardly discouraged.

After careful replication of numbers from the machines around him to the charts pinned to her clipboard, she left him be— but, not before a quick mental note, knowing the wheat-flour noodles and miso had finally come in. She considered that his recovery would be smoother if his stomach was full of a meal he had requested several times over and passed by the kitchen on her way to her office.

But Genji had not given up in his efforts to control the new skeletal hand, becoming increasingly desperate in each resounding failure. Each segmented, unfamiliar digit shuttered imprecisely under intense mental strain as he tried to pull each finger into a fist. All of his focus and all of his concentration— yet nothing responded.

Eventually, his unmodded hand grasped the other at the wrist and he felt his face wet from angry tears that spurred suddenly and would not stop.

Nothing was in his control.

_This isn’t pain enough?_

He pressed his _good_ hand to his face, only to understand that his face instead registered the absence of fleshy tissue. And all too suddenly, he was released from the recollection and shifted into the complete awareness that it had been many months since the time he had been remembering and that his _good_ hand had eventually shared the fate of the other.

Even so, having gained necessary fluidity of movement, they had still lacked perception of pain. All of the new parts had.

Dr. Zeigler was still waiting for an answer.

Hovering over the stove, absently bringing water to a slow boil, he noticed how the kitchen had progressively darkened around him. Casting a look over his shoulder, Genji was unsurprised to find the sky thick with grey clouds, blotting out the full effect of the afternoon’s sun. Everything had become pale and bored— he included.

He held a hand over the water, watching the steam curl around his inorganic palm, thinking the question that he too had been resisting.

_Do I want to feel pain?_

He pulled his hand away from the hot element for examination— knowing, with enduring annoyance that it _should_ hurt but it _won’t_ and it _can’t._

Bringing it too close to his face, as he had, finally registered heat. With no one to share his discontentment with, the thoughts left to carry on racing uselessly about his head, he settled on attempting to release as much irritation as he could inside a drawn-out groan.

You had only left a little bit ago— the day was still young but it was dark and unlike the day before, rain would completely restrict him within the concrete walls. There would be no relief, no brief delusion of freedom granted by the limited space of the balcony with how the weather had turned.

While he was aware that he was loosely capable of repelling water, his outermost casings largely responsible, he had been warned repeatedly that repellant was _by no stretch of the imagination_ impervious. The _nano-technology_ — meriting a roll of the eye from him for the fussy nature of the language used to describe his most basic functions— would wear away over time and if he was not diligent with maintenance, check-ups that touchingly used both traditional medical devices as well as necessitating a standard toolbox, he would be rudely surprised by malfunctions.

Genji grit his jaw at the taste of the word. It brought further separation from the person he had known himself to be for the better part of 25 years. _Malfunctions_. Never specified, exact nature unknown, only that he was prone to them in this stage of his development. Hydrophobic silicone coatings were explained to be sufficient until upgrades were available, but even so, he was made to understand that _too much_ rain in his finicky technology would quickly become unpleasant. The _second-puberty_ of becoming a cyborg was nothing less than a varitable hell.

He knew that as he uselessly boiled water, somewhere halfway across the globe, a sleepless doctor was working on just that— upgrades. He felt no more relieved, no more comforted. He imagined briefly, overtaken by a spark of ill-timed rage, what it would feel like if he had taken the boiling pot of water and poured it over himself.

How much of him would ache? How much of him would feel anything at all?

After beginning the steeping process and shutting the element off, he felt the air still hot in his throat which grievously extended a heightened level of discomfort all throughout his body. Everything felt alien once in a while as he expected it would— but, that made it no less draining or tolerable.

The last of the steam climbed up the front of his armor as his bare face, twitching in the heat of the stove, set in a look of displeasure. Pretending his entire prior thought process had not left him discouraged, he soldiered on.

The recipe was simple but familiar enough, being that it was an old habit of his to mix homemade iced tea with alcohol— especially so in the summer. He would frequently have a pitcher on standby for nights when he was too spent to drag himself out to the bars, be it due to nursing injuries from training or headaches from mashing buttons all day in 16-Bit Hero.

Genji decided that no amount of vodka or tequila or anything else— no less entertained by the idea of testing his theory first— would make him feel anything like the previous seasons and settled on making the drink without liquor. But— it had all felt like it was taking far too long. Gouging a can of coconut milk open with a shuriken, unbothered to go sifting through drawers for the appropriate utensil, he added the contents to the brew alongside a generous, albeit ambitious, volume of honey. All measurements became approximate in his sudden desire to finish.

Overcome by unpredictable exhaustion, long last shutting the pitcher away in the fridge, he flopped over face-first into the couch. Another groan twisted out of him, becoming muffled in the cushion surrounding his face. The small task of making tea, devilishly simple, had felt like monumentally more than it had been.

Rolling from his stomach to his side, towards the TV, careful enough to not spill over onto the floor, he scooped up the remote.

After building a nest with a thin blanket and arranging all available pillows around him for maximal comfort, he had begun to feel his eyelids too heavy to keep back. As long as there were no more thoughts of the past year, no images of hospital beds or gauze, a nap would be welcome.

An hour or so later, your phone had started to buzz from the other room, which proved to be a particularly jarring way for Genji to jolt back into awareness. He lifted his face from the cushion, eyes still closed but eyebrows knotted together. The 10 or so consecutive rings were grating on him.

He decided he would do something about it if it were to ring one more time. It ceased making any noise at all. So, he allowed his face back down against the sofa, which seemed reasonable, until the phone started chirping again and he sat up with resolve.

It was also then when Genji was faced with an internal dilemma, listening to it ringing for an imagined eternity— _Should I answer it?_ Although the devil on his shoulder, in denial of your privacy, was already pushing him towards just that.

_Check, check, check._

He sat up; clumsily untangling his limbs from the blanket and moving down the hallway to your room as sleep momentum slowed his movements. The phone stopped ringing almost exactly as he lifted it off the bedside table.

He shrugged at the unknown caller notifications before setting it back down.

It was quiet, seemingly without sign of starting again. As he began to back out of the bedroom— your phone sprang back into life and rang again, buzzing against the counter.

_Whoever it is, it must be urgent._

Genji spun back around to answer.

“Who _is_ this?” He had asked with too much insistence, no part of him capable of being polite to such a nuisance.

The line filled with soft static until a voice came though, “You’re impossible to get in contact with.”

Genji could instantly place the voice. That didn’t stop him from spluttering, “C-Commander?”

“Oh, don’t tell me you’re surprised.”

He would have argued that he was not so much surprised as he was mildly irritated. “How did you get this number? How do you know where I am?”

“Did you forget what you’re out there for?” Coupled with other equally accusatory remarks, the voice neither aggravated nor authoritative. His casual reply only made Genji flare up. “We got new leads for you that you might find interesting. The only problem is since you haven’t _bothered_ checking in with us, like we _agreed_ you would if you care to remember, you’ve left us— how shall I put it, in the dark?”

 _For this exact reason._ The obvious strained relationship, held together by obligation _. Like, I owe you each breath I take._

“You know damn well we don’t like sitting in the dark, Genji. Why didn’t you at least _try_ to get in contact with us?”

“I didn’t want to.” Truthfully, somewhere near what he had admitted. Speaking to them meant shifting his focus, and he wasn’t quite ready to leave again.

“Huh,” no deflation in the Commander’s tone, as if he had all the same said— _I should have guessed_. “Well then it won’t bother me too much to tell you we’ve decided to switch that tracking device on. Every move you take is a red blinking dot on this screen here.”

Genji wished he could reach through the phone and strangle him— not fatally, only enough to illustrate his point. He took the news as well as he could.

“Now, before you go thinking about this the wrong way, it’s not that we don’t trust you, Genji, but you did disappoint us. Massively. So, if this were a test, you would have damn well failed.”

Perhaps an apology was necessary, but Genji had a number of responses to say and none of them would have satisfied the Commander so he shrewdly remained without a verbal defense.

“You must know by now where Hanzo Shimada is in all of this.” Hanzo Shimada, specifically under Genji’s demand to not be referred to as his brother— gods help any agents who stumbled over that.

“Hanzo…” his voice deceitfully composed, breaking into a pause before continuing, “I know too well. I know that your information was off.”

Colossally wrong. Hanzo was no longer chairman of the Shimada clan, as Genji had been made to believe; a sure headache to think about, even in the removed, abstract space he kept himself in.

“We knew that.”

“You never said—” 

“It was strictly on a need to know basis.”

“Ah! Well then, Commander, allow me be the first to say that’s _bullshit_. Respectfully.” Did it get much more need to know then being escorted back to Japan with the vague objective of tracking down and killing the family’s head?

The Commander laughed, speaking through the end of his amusement, “It didn’t make much sense for us to rile you up and then steal the ground out from beneath you—” 

“So you lied?”

“I wouldn’t call it lying.”

 _But it was._ Genji’s voice was critical, words rushing neatly into the other, “And if I had  _accidentally_  killed him?”

Through the annoying flick of doubt, the Commander asked, “Would it really be an accident?” But then in sudden sympathy, made to recall the specifics of the cyborg ninja’s file, allowed for a much-needed breather before redirecting their conversation.

“We think it would be of value to look into another guy, the guy who is acting in place of your b—" The Commander had very nearly said it. Brother. He cleared his throat before speaking again, saying the name of a person Genji hadn't thought about in months.

Claw’s name would have been surprising if Genji had not already known a person like him would be harder to kill. The nerve he had to stay alive, to survive when he was so obviously left to die. All in the same realization, the shake of his head thinking about Claw sitting where his father had— he knew they were nothing alike.

And even if _they_ considered it possible to destroy the Shimada clan for good, mindlessly ordering him to go after important figures, he knew that there would never be a shortage of volunteers bidding their lives to sit in the throne— a place that was _his right_ before anyone else’s, said all the hot blood, pounding through his body at recognition.

“I know him.”

“Good, good…” Trailing off, then re-stabilizing and ordering, “Leave him alone. For now, at least. We’ve got bigger concerns.”

“Bigger concerns,” Genji repeated to himself, pacing from the bedroom to the kitchen to pour himself a glass of tea— not that he was thirsty, but because standing in one place had become impossible; there was no way for him to continue to avoid thinking about the affairs of his family with the voice in his ear speaking so plainly about it. After tasting, he found he had been a little _too_ heavy handed with the honey, a sweetness there that had almost been aggressively stimulating; his face contorted with something near a smile in quiet relief that there was  _something_  able to permeate his dulled sense of taste after all.

“I’ve got another name for you.”

“Do you?” The inflection of something— decisively not interest, Genji watching the drink swirl around the sides of the glass.

“Yanosuke Ando.” Said, butchered, but understood. _Ringing any bells?_

The wonderful visceral experience the name produced— each spiteful kick in his ribs, his mouth full of blood and strained laughter.

_That fucker._

Genji nearly spat out his next sip, the cup shifting in his grip, “What about him?”

“As of now, he’s our primary…” The Commander had said which prompted him to explain what paltry information he had on the man as Genji stood still and _for once_ focused on each word without interruption.

“— An informant confirms he’s got information on the Shimada clan we might find of value. We need you to sniff it out and bring it back to us without ruffling anyone’s feathers. You are not to lay a finger on him until we can sort out what dirt he may or may not have, understood?”

“Yeah, fine,” Genji muttered before finishing the rest of the glass in one go. The potency of the tea had since subdued itself, causing an unsatisfactory frown. “Just tell me where this asshole lives and I’ll sort it out.”

He deleted the evidence of the call and set the phone back where he found it.

The discarded faceplates were located and reattached. 

With the cover of overcast and specific permission from the Commander, concern for malfunctions set aside, Genji found himself at the edge of the balcony. He was collected precariously over the aluminum railing, impossible balance keeping him solid even through the lashing wind.

If anyone had happened to be looking then— and help it or not, the orders were he move _quickly_ — they would have been left with the wrong impression entirely.

He felt the railing’s sudden absence underneath his feet.


	7. Malfunctions

Hanamura flared up before him and then around him. Genji was helpless to resist its presence from invading his senses, helpless to turn himself away from it all as he came to a standstill at the rooftop with Rikimaru underneath, sharing the same space as the landmark of the coral red kinobori that had since come to life in the pre-storm winds.

His own mind was a hard thing to trust, stretched thin and strategically worn down. How many times had he retreated to his memories, pressuring himself to recall every detail he could about the life he missed? Enough that he needed convincing that he had not been back in one of  _their_  medical facilities, experimental tranquilizer working its way through his system as he merely built the familiarity around him to restore some sense of comfort in his displacement.

He would not let  _them_  take you from him, unjustifiably under the assumption they would have wanted to— a similar desperation that you had felt in your year of separation, with time prying him further from you in each passing week. He refused just the same to forget you, refused to allow the treatments to influence his focus and spent the first phase of his time under  _their_  care actively resisting each and every little poke and prod. And somewhere in his defiance, after much coaxing by Dr. Ziegler to administer general anesthesia for the first time— gripping onto the railings of the gurney with white knuckles, excruciating pain serving as the negotiator— Genji had seen you so clearly and vividly in his medically induced haze that he was heartbroken once he came back to. It was then when he decided that he had vastly preferred sleep.

After becoming submissive to their drugs, administered in tremendous amounts through his growing resistance to them, he would become temporarily impervious to painful stimulation as well as most anything else. The doctor’s routine questions, for one, just as well asked by a disembodied voice from another room or down the hallway for all he was aware. She would scratch and scrawl on her clipboard, "mild only"— retracing the words for emphasis, knowing the dosage had been more than sufficient; his discomfort blotted out, surely, the entire world along with it.

But, he would somehow always get his way in the end.

In the steadily forming burden of lucidity, hours of tedious clarity where they required his cooperation, had his personality hardened. Death had taken too much from him and left him unsure the motivations of others, unwilling to listen or be responsive. Death left him weary and exhausted, built a wall to keep him from  _them_. But  _they_ — they insisted on calling him a survivor. They called him  _lucky_.

Luck was a heavy burden.

He was close enough then to hear the echo of electric ambiance rising from the arcade, to smell the burnt circuitry and excitement of 16-Bit Hero as the familiar neon sign at his side bore over him like an artificial sun. Shimada Castle at his other side, sight lost to the closed wooden gates, was no less present. The reminder of what had happened, both arrow and sword, had Genji press a hand to his heart with his fingers tightly curled to his palm. He seethed out as the splitting ache commanded him to, a ragged little sound that wore the thin distortion of his speech. Bodily, along with it, his lights flickered too as he pulled into himself, loosing height by the impartial curve of his spine.

Hanamura had been too much for him and too soon. The village could— and rightfully so, _would—_ take him apart piece by cybernetic piece if he stood still a moment longer in reflection. Even if he had fabricated the moment, the toll it had taken on him had been far from imagined. He knew indignantly, in spite of the lasting wounds, his only viable option was to follow the commander's orders.

Forward was the only direction that mattered.

He  _had to_  move forward.

There was weak consolation in resigning his feelings over but just enough for momentum. The surrounding rooftops made for adequate cover and he began moving once again without consideration, chasing paths he remembered discovering in his youth. Instinct, the uncontrollable and inherited force, surged within as glazed clay tiles clicked underfoot. He hated to admit it had been far easier than he remembered and in his measurements had very nearly considered himself to be appreciative, albeit privately and momentarily, for the advantage the upgrades had served— but the thought ruptured once he saw  _it_  rising into focus.

Landing the last jump, an impossibly far distance but still laughably effortless for his limbs, he slowed his movements and paced over the last roof until the gutter. With a stern tip of his head, chin lowering, he acknowledged what lay just beneath him. Home.

Or— what he used to call as such. It was home no longer.

Registered then, as if it had been possible for him to forget or disregard only until the moment of having freshly seen it, all the feelings he had hoped would remain quiet. He had spent the past few months wrongfully going between strange medical facilities and research labs when he should have been  _right_   _there_ ; the place that had kept him away from the world at his best and worst, the house that had provided its comforting silence and protection when the news of his father’s passing left him in pieces.

There he was, undecided if the tension in his chest was real or imagined, scrambling to stay together once more though unable to properly return home.

If anything, the weather favored his arrival but sure enough the strong damp scent of soil and sweet, sharp ozone was herald to a promised turn of conditions and only supplied Genji with further reason to hurry.  _Malfunctions_ , warned the dull, useless echo in his head.

The property had tragically appeared the same as he remembered but his feelings towards it had only worsened as he closed the distance, advancing in the cover of shadow and passing through into the back yard. With the exception of his targets being removed, everything was as it should have been, if he had still lived there— lived at all. The sight of the lacquered table sitting under the swaying paper lanterns, flanked by the still-impeccably kept traditional garden, stung.

Genji folded into himself, thumbing the petals of a red Carmellia planted near the ledge of the deck. He missed them in full bloom when their leaves were glossy, colour as vibrant as wild roses; they had reached their peak earlier in spring as he had endured, becoming what he was.

_Mine. This was mine._

He concentrated with all of his surviving strength to not smash in the window, the glass wall that ran the entire length of the house. He childishly bargained with himself and insisted to the reasonable part of his brain that it would be more satisfying _and_ creative than using the door. But he had not been thumbing the petals for appreciation or sentiment.

Carefully, with observable respect for the plant and reasonable thought prevailing, he dug around in the dirt just beneath them and retrieved a key he had long since buried.

He heard his father’s voice then, as if he was present and standing on the deck just before him, “You are always welcome home, Sparrow.”

Genji was startled by the imagined sound that only served a painful reminder. After a night of habitual overindulgence and blinding hedonism, markers of his past-life, he had called his father after crawling home under the maddening realization that he had misplaced his keys. He remembered how he had been sprawled along the deck, half-listening as his head swam in the stars, remembering his Father say some variation of just that. He remembered feeling angry, refusing the offer because it had been too much like defeat.

The spare was made and buried the next morning to save himself from ever needing such a rescue.

The sky rumbled deeply as Genji’s synthetic fingers turned the key over, trying not to remember the details as hard as they had raced back to him. What he would give to be able to call his Father then.

_“You are always welcome home, Sparrow.”_

Approaching the back door, he found he had been rewarded for his restraint as it unlocked with a familiar click. Genji felt a flicker of joy without meaning to.

His joy was only present long enough for him to be aware of how it was noticeably taken away, extinguished just as suddenly as it cropped up when he slid the door open and stepped inside. No alarm or warning of intrusion had forced him back outside, unnecessary in consideration of its new inhabitant. Anyone brave enough to break in would be sternly out of their right mind to do so.

The slatted blinds had since been replaced with heavy blackout drapes which had been a disorientating addition to the large open-floor plan that Genji had never seen so dark. Surveying what he could, he moved, ghosting about to ensure the house was vacant before beginning his search and allowing the lights along his armor to flare back up. The profuse darkness heightened his other senses, even with the slight addition of his own small luminosity, making Genji exceedingly aware that all of what had made it  _his_  had been stripped away in every shape and form. The smell too was foreign, dark and rich like black orchids.

He started in the kitchen, back to the glass sliding door he had preemptively left open. Searching the fridge had not been an essential part of his orders by any means but he found himself compelled to do so all the same. Faced with beautifully marbled toro, matsutake mushrooms, and thinly sliced wagyu beef, his lips curled from under the faceplates.  _Fugu?_  The delicately arranged transparent sheets of blowfish had him slam the door shut. _A new hight of pretentiousness, even for you..._

From the living room, opening books up fruitlessly and replacing them in random order, to looking behind paintings hung about the entrance, leaving them purposely crooked, he worked his way into the master— a great twang of disgust snapping within him then— finding what appeared to be identical looking suits hung up in the now-monochrome closet. Fluted black glass cologne bottles in the bathroom. The offense was disorientating, all of his things replaced as if he had never lived there.

Why was it that he had returned? To break all of the new occupant's possessions? Set fire to the house? Both? More?

No— he had been sent there to look for something  _small_  and  _trivial_  and so carried on, throat raw from the resentment he had repeatedly been swallowing.

One of the smaller bedrooms from off the hallway had been converted into an office, noted by the large ornate desk as the clear centerpiece of the room. All grand blackened wood with elaborate, fine golden embellishments of reeds and cranes. Searching drawers he found traditional calligraphy tools and horse-hair brushes, envelopes and other typical office supplies as well as matches and needle-knives for acupuncture, the last of which had Genji resolutely sure that they had not kept for their intended purposes. The find would have drawn shivers from deep in his soft tissue provided so much of him would have been numb to the puncturing.

_“Do you want to feel pain, Genji?”_

He forced his sliding attention back and fanned papers across the solid surface of the desk, reading hand-written notes of questionable interest in the margins all while feeling the crushing weight of resigning himself to the belief that maybe the source had been wrong and he had taken the great risk of leaving your apartment for nothing.

Accidentally, as he had been moving files about, he had knocked over a wine glass. And even as it was empty and of no importance to him then, Genji bent down to retrieve it but only to find a face staring back at him with eyes just as green and luminous in the dark as his own lights.

The only thing that could surprise a ninja, matching his own incredible stealth— a cat.

He nearly toppled over. “You! You scared me…” He began scolding, accusing it for the half-second of surprise that latched onto him before leaning forward to get a better look at it, “What do you want?”

As if it could respond. 

Instead, it flicked its tail, curiously batting his visor and trapping light under its paw. Not quite as exciting as a laser pointer, but a sight that held it captivated regardless.

“Enough,” Genji scolded again, gently, as if he were talking to a small child that had understood the language he used. He tapped a finger against the paw; the cat pulled back but only batted him once again with more insistence, in dispute of his feeble attempt.

 _Tsk-_ ed,unfazed but distracted all the same,“Away with you,  _furball_.”

But as Genji rose to stand, too preoccupied and not putting his attention where it mattered, he knocked the top of his head against the underside of the desk. Besides being a minor annoyance at best, something had also whirred in response of his clumsiness. The sudden sound, short as it had been, spooked the cat and caused it to skitter off past the fine reach of his lights.

He felt along where he had hit his head. Sure enough, he found a switch— the discovery rendering him quiet, even internally, for a few moments until he could make sense of it all.

_You tricky bastard._

The happy accident had revealed a shallow safe, embedded in the side of the desk and hidden by a false panel. The solid steel and tamper-resistant hinges were beyond the capabilities of what he had at his disposal. Still, Genji imagined  _they_  would be interested all the same.

He felt small paws over him again. The cat had returned, kneading his shin for attention. He gave in, absently giving his company a satisfying scratch about the face and ears before a critical sigh of defeat for being unable to do anything else. The safe was installed with a sophisticated recognition system, requiring biometric confirmation.

"No fingerprints, no entry,” he mused, sourly.

While purring its thanks, the cat squeaked suddenly and went slinking off out of the room. Genji had almost been offended that his new friend was no longer interested before his brain jumped to the appropriate conclusion, rising to his feet— careful not to hit his head for the second time.

The cat had faithfully trotted towards the genkan and began circling the step, knowing the presence of its human meant dinner would be served soon. With the click of the key and the handle turning, the cat either clairvoyant or exceedingly attentive to far-away sounds, Ando came in with his cellphone pressed up to his ear, immersed in a call.

He was not the imposing man that his reputation would have inspired and very much unlike the usual yakuza stock with his slight build— not until he was approached and his features closely evaluated would there be cause for concern underneath the "false panel" of his conventional attractiveness. While his facial symmetry suggested plastic surgery, the dark look about his eyes suggested  _run_.

He smoothly bent into himself to unlace his glazed leather shoes, the cat finding opportunity to merrily brush up against the tailored leg of his dress pants. “I’m down to my last suit.” He spoke with exasperation apparent but neatly pinned in his speech, shooing the milk white Persian away and picking at the hairs it left.

The voice over the phone was quick to respond, “It's your fault for only buying black clothes.” 

Ando waited patiently for pause to speak, “I want you to pick her up tomorrow. Tonight would be preferable but I won't be unreasonable...” Stepping up onto the hardwood, he turned down the long hallway into the master bedroom. The person on the other line must have protested for how his voice had hardened once again, “Then, I suppose I'll have to send  _someone_  to drop her off, won't I?”

He balanced the phone as he carefully shrugged his absurdly expensive wool suit jacket off, setting it on a properly stiff hanger before drifting back out to the kitchen. He rolled a tense, stabbing ache out of his shoulders, breathing carefully to control his tone for the direction the call had taken. “ _Naomi_.”

Ando flicked lights on as he passed the switches, finally flooding the space with cold light, his free hand otherwise occupied in loosening his violet ribbed silk tie.

“Since you have decided to move out, it only makes sense that—“

But he never finished, met by a sudden, pervasive drop of temperature which was easily felt through his dress shirt. And where he had expected silence, both sides of the conversation having gone quiet, came the gentle patter of raindrops hitting the deck.

“— I’ll call you back.” He assured the line, taking a measured pause before setting the phone down on the counter. He demanded a moment longer, alone with the rain as it broke over Hanamura, drawing conclusions before he could confirm anything.

“Curious, isn’t it?” He began towards the windowed wall, speaking to himself. The heavy fabric shuttered as if it had began breathing. He extended an arm to peel the drapes back before speaking to his imagined audience once more with seen-it-all tedium, lines in a script he was reluctantly reading, “Curious that I would bother to lock the  _front_  door but leave the  _back_  wide open.”

After brief surveillance of the empty yard, he switched focus, eyes darkly flicking away in the direction of the hallway he had just emerged from.

Still, without a great hurry, he recollected his phone from the countertop and directed himself into the office, noticing immediately the great flurry of papers strewn about. Stalling, but finally moving towards the desk, he noticed the switch had been triggered and the safe was exposed.

Ando's tone was hard to read. Bordering what might have been amusement, he murmured, “Well, _that_ was quick.”

Pressing his pointer finger against the identification pad, the safe whirred in agreement. After reviewing the contents with cold, mathematical detachment, he reset the lock and readjusted the panel before redialing Naomi.

There was no mention of the intrusion.

 

 

Genji had cleared the property before Ando had made it down the hallway, loosing his chance to hide the evidence in favor of slipping out undetected. That would have to be okay with the commander... 

And even then, that was only on the condition that he would be able to make the report at all—  _if_ he could manage to leave Hanamura without shutting down.

In the dying, meager light of day, evening settling past the dense clouds, he raced back to your apartment with limbs that had begun to refuse his will. Every stretch he remained upright without topping over was a miracle within itself; his legs, either locking up uselessly or buckling, caused him to lurch forward and loose balance. Over and over.  _Malfunctions_ — no longer a vague term, real as anything and slowing him down to an almost impossible crawl. The asphalt under his feet— then knees and hands and faceplates— scraped at his casings, ground no less softened by the puddles forming in the torrential downpour he found himself trapped in.

The village promised yet to take him apart piece by cybernetic piece. He  _had to_  move forward, regardless of the increasing impossibility.

 

 

When you opened your apartment door, clothes halfway soaked from the rain you had not been prepared for, you were surprised at the lingering scent of jasmine that greeted you. Stopping first in the kitchen after kicking your sopping shoes off, you set a plastic bag stacked neatly with aluminum and paper containers down on the counter, making good on your promise to bring home dinner for Genji. You made sure everything was intact, carefully lifting all the packages out for inspection before taking notice that Genji had not yet come to greet you.

You noticed then that TV was left on and the volume was reduced to a whisper. The blanket and pillows arranged to say that he had been sitting there — but he wasn't then.

“I’m home!” You called out to no answer but the continued low buzzing of the program, then wondering if he had perhaps been in the bathroom— he drank and ate, functions calling for relief of some kind. Instead of looking, you busied yourself by turning back to the cupboards and grabbing flatware, making sure you had a plate out in the off-chance that he might eat with you and not after. Bending into the fridge for water, you found the pitcher of tea he had prepared earlier and curiosity dictated you try some.

Pressing a glass to your lips, half-full, you took a slow sip.

_Almost criminally sweet, but still palatable._

But thunder called for your attention and as you turned towards the window, you nearly choked and spluttered. Genji stood in the balcony—  _loosely_  standing at least, for how his body leaned into itself uncharacteristically, tilted as if he was about to collapse. Behind him, the sky was veined with lighting.

You set the cup down, brow furrowing with distress. “What are you doing out there in this weather?”

But stranger yet was his response to you in a slow flickering of the lights along his entire body; it was less of an expression and more of a hiccup. It seemed important to ask being that you yourself would have avoided the balcony in the sudden intensity the storm had insisted upon the city. Rain clung to his body as it raced down and over torso. He seemed to shiver on the spot which was more than apparent from where you stood.

“Genji… Are you  _waterproof_?”

A ridiculous question— but objectively no more ridiculous than him standing outside.

Just then, his knees liquefied and his body fell into a heap over the cement. You nearly tripped over yourself to get to him, hoisting one of his arms over your shoulder— ingrained in your mind the weight of him from the night where you woke up with all of his limbs on you— lifting him easily, but still awkwardly, before setting him on the couch.

“Genji?” You pressed both hands to his face, the plates cool against your fingers and his face swiveling without provocation, as limp as a ragdoll. “ _Genji_ , talk to me.”

Any response would have been good. Anything. You searched him for some indication of what to do, imaging a frantic google search: _cyborg boyfriend water damage, won't respond_. Rice, silica gel packs, paper towel, blow dryer, disassemble, _replace him if he doesn't work_.

With renewed impatience, your voice broke as pleaded with him again. "Say something,  _please_ —”

His fingers independently shivered, lifting his head up just enough for it to fall back on his neck as he made a small groan, “S… s-something.”

_You little shit._

You forced yourself calm by a long exhale before speaking again.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt? Why were you outside? What was so important that you did this to yourself?”

Genji's hands weakly hunted along the sides of his visor to the back of his head, familiar obnoxious lilt in his voice. “Didn’t… even r-realize… it was… r-raining..." He gave you a short, clipped laugh before his feet arched, involuntary, by the twitching of the synthetic muscle down his leg that followed.

Then, a _huff_ and  _click._  The mechanical unlatching sound of his shifting faceplates. With difficulty, he forced his hands to grasp and pull, smooth metal set aside in favor of the face you had loved and missed. Beneath the scars, his magnetic smirk in full, unhindered glory and amber eyes set in half-lidded exhaustion.


	8. Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this one gets a little nsfw

“Your face—”

Raised with scars, running ragged and disordered, authentication of an unspoken trauma. Thin, half-faded. Marks, telling of pain he had kept hidden, worn then plainly like the new darkness in his eyes. Genji held you in a weakened gaze before his eyelids fell and he looked away with what you could immediately pinpoint as being shame.

You felt something strongly. Not revolt, anger. _Who could have done this to you?_ But, the anger was weaker than what flushed it out. You had loved him so fiercely all though his absence that recognizing his shame in wearing the scars made you feel sick. He firmly believed, the little fear that refused to leave, that he was lost in everything that happened. But what were the scars besides evidence of his existence? And how was it fair that survival had made him self-conscious and critical?

The first of his faceplates, released from his hand, was allowed to roll to the floor. Then, his not-entirely-responsive limbs bent again to remove the second of the two, but he visibly strained to hoist his arm back up and you watched him move without the effortless coordination you had come to expect from him. You would have helped if you weren’t so sure that it was excruciating enough for him already, that the assistance would have worsened the sure clench of shame.

“Y-eah... I kn-know—” _The scars, the scars… I’m full of bad surprises._ Genji’s tone had become slightly desperate as the other plate unlatched with a dry hiss of air, revealing the rest of his face; his strong, tensed jaw and fine, cruel downturned lips of conceivable disappointment. The metal plate rolled off the side of the couch from his slackening grip then onto the floor, clattering as it fell near the other.

He was so hard on himself.

Still, laborious as it had been with rebelling prosthetics, he was not quite done. His fingers crept over the sides of his face, feeling along the skin as a guide until they met the back of his head. A single unsecured tendril of hair hung in his face, black. His natural color, affirmed by the roots you would notice every so often when he would sleep next to you, unguarded and exhausted by a life that wore him down. The length of his roots a ruler for his priorities.

He worked to free the rest of his helmet, the series of pieces that kept his skull aerodynamic and protected. Clicking, shifting, resisting, having to fight it, he strained as his core shuddered and lifted his torso up enough to completely remove the rest of the grey carbon fiber.

Then, met by a distressed look, flickering and hedging about, amber irises too shy to meet you in fear of judgment or recoil. But there was none, and you wanted nothing more than to assure him of just that. You whispered, unsure if the hammering in your chest would drown you out, breathing hard enough that you felt it in the rising and falling of your shoulders, “God, you’re— _you're so handsome_.”

A word he had been unprepared for, needing to let it sink in. His heart twitched and ached for having stalled the moment as long as he could in fear of explaining. Repentant, the moment finally upon you, there you were accepting. Complimenting. He might have made a joke to deflect the sudden attention had his body not been disobeying and making the simplest actions near-impossible. You saw the embarrassment rise in him, unable to avoid the instant flush behind his cheekbones.

“You’re just like I remember...” You affirmed out loud. Whatever part of you expected differently was dead and gone like it had never existed.

You wanted so much to reach out and touch him but resisted then, the periodic, violent shivers advising otherwise along with concern that touching then would be too complicated. Too much heat, too much frustration. Too many feelings rushing to the surface, in competition. And it was intricate enough as it was.

“It’s _you_. I knew it was you but before but... I know it all over again.” You felt itch of tears, both joyful and overwhelmed, “My Genji...”

Did you want to make him cry?

He blinked and blinked, trying to adjust and process the thought. His eyes became glassy, sublime liquid amber simmering until the corners of his mouth stretched into a line that slowly broke. One corner pulled up higher than the other, registered immediately as the smirk you were so familiar with. “Yours,” he managed a tone of both amusement and comfort. _I like the sound of that._

He dared then, tipping his chin, to shift his gaze up at you through his eyelashes. His devious, impish, precise _look_ , managed still through the outright defiance and misfiring of his body, that would have brought you to your knees had you not already been kneeling upon the dense living room rug before him.

You tested if his fragile system could bare an additional stimulus, had to, slowly reaching out to pull a hand through his black hair that was delicately matted with sweat or rainwater or both. Not a factor, then. It was the very same type of reaction you had used to soothe him with before— a lifetime ago. Reassuringly, just enough contact to register, you smoothed his hair back. Soft, slick, the motion was accepted by the gradual easing of his facial features. You repeated until his eyes shut, and he lay motionless— not cured by any means, but not jerking away either.

“Are you alright?” You spoke low, your lips close to his ear.

With trouble, he nodded. Even so, his body refused to corroborate his claim or follow his expression. “Y-yeah. Fi-fine… But—” He tried to hide a whine, looking pained suddenly. A abrupt stabbing, concentrated jolt seized him and lead him to twist away from your halted touch. Under his skin, an alien sensation. Everything stuck in reverse, his nerves responding to the glitching technology and not the other way around. He shuddered out, “Mal-f-functions... Ah... Mmm...”

“What can I do?” You asked, failing to keep your voice clean of worry, helping him sit upright only after he reached out to you to steady himself.

He winced again, driving contemplation, forcing him to consider if he was desperate enough to get in contact with  _them_. His will to was short-lived because it ended in the realization of what kind of shit fit would ensue; they could have him removed in a matter of hours and rushed back to a sterile medical facility, sedation, testing— the endless loop.

_It’s eleven, Dr. Ziegler._

Thinking about the world slipping away had lost its previous appeal, especially feeling your very real hands touch him with equally as real concern. The white lie was necesssary. He seethed, feeling a particularly strong current move through his shoulders and neck, “... I don’t know. It s-should pass...” Which, by all means it could, but was not guaranteed. He had never asked, never considered the occasion. 

The skin of his face alternated meekly from hot to cool as if struck by a terrible fever. Bodily confusion hit him hard— something close to the feeling of adjusting to his artificial adjustments, except instead of one at a time, it was all of them at once. You very nearly considered consulting google for the second time before another particularly painful looking shiver seized him and you were certain the unintelligible growl might have been a number of swears rolled into one sound.

“Okay, okay,” you moved from hovering before the couch to sitting next to him, pulling the blanket he had napped in earlier around the two of you, “What does it feel like? Is it constant or is it coming and going?”

“It’s... e-lectric-c-c under... my s-skin... Currents jumping,” another shudder, finally, “In w-waves...”

“Shit, _shit_...” You breathed, ill-defined panic shaping your tone, pulling the blanket all the way down his arm and bringing the end to the center of his chest to entirely surround him with it. You were both cocooned and you hoped he would feel some kind of safety or relief in the gesture. “It's okay, it’s okay. I’m right here. We’ll figure it out, we’ll fix it.” _Somehow. Right?_

Nestled in his side as you were, you could feel every remote, minute quake. He trembled as if he were frozen but his forehead shined with sweat.

Another whine. His body awkwardly bunched and tensed. His core mimicking that of a deep inhale. He laughed, brave and defiant, but lined with pain all the same before clipping out, “Th-thank you… for taking c-c-care of me…”

He felt guilty although it couldn’t be helped. The orders were inflexible.

You gave him a look of concern in return, leaning your forehead to his cheek. He turned his face enough, slowly and uncomfortably but forcing his way through it, to press his lips to your forehead.

Agony. Delight. He weakly managed to kiss you, until a shiver stopped him.

“I’m so… sorry…” He whispered against your skin, his voice broken by more than just the malfunctioning. _I didn't want to but I had to. I went to Hanamura, to my house. That assassin who nearly broke all my ribs lives there now and all my things are gone. He's got blowfish in the fridge and nothing would make me happier than re-arranging his pretentious fucking face for it with my fists._ “I—” But he stopped himself, knowing how it would be useless to try to explain in his state. In place of words, he kissed your forehead again and again, only realizing you had been tearing up when you sniffed and pressed a hand to your face.

“Don’t you start apologizing,” you tried to sound firm, but there was no point in pretending, “Unless this is fatal and you’re dying and—” You made a choking sound, singlehandedly managing to make it feel worse.

“I’m n-not!” He looked terrified that the thought had even crossed your mind, then all the same, upset with himself.

“You’re not allowed to, okay?” _You’re not allowed to die again._ However unreasonable and overdramatic, said.

One of his hands had found and cupped the side of your face. The repercussion of the movement was a shockwave of irritable twitches throughout his entire being. You felt it begin to slip and pressed your hand to the back of his to help him hold it there, nuzzling the fingers that for the first time since seeing him, struck you as being fragile. Something in the combination of being so close to him, feeling each tremor along with him, made the tears fall faster.

But then you laughed, the sound broken but genuine, “I’m not helping.” You pointed towards your face, tears rolling down your cheek and meeting his segmented fingers. “I’m going to make it worse if I keep this up, won’t I?”

His eyes moved over your features, concern directing them— your eyes, your tears, your lips as you spoke. He knew you had cried more enough over him. You looked to him, feeling the distinct weight of your eyelashes when you blinked. He exhaled through his nose, a weak snort, breaking the seriousness that had fallen around you. “A-again? Y-you must love t-to play w-with me.”

You laughed, his comment bringing an over-exaggerated pout to your face. “Are you talking about that _one time_ with the vents?”

Although he shivered, his skin felt warm against you and you were struck with a sudden jolt of your own. Awareness.

_Brilliant._

“Wait, your vents!” You repeated, “Genji, _of course_ , your vents.”

“Hm?” He hummed first, expressive eyebrows bending more habitually then in question because he suddenly appeared to share your same idea.

“Would that help?” You asked, suddenly clutching onto the one hand, pressed to your face still.

For release, you though— a way to flush his system, something. It was worth it to try.

You began to hunt before his reply, starting first by looking over his shoulders for a switch or a button. Your hands soon joined in, roaming over the pliant, smooth surface of his casings. If you had not been suddenly consumed in your search, you might have noticed his not quite hidden look about him knowing that you still had so much to learn about his new body— and deviously, how your eagerness was simply _too rich_ with opportunity to leave unexploited.

Briefly, it wasn’t about the uncomfortable pressure and restless cybertechnology— friction was much more interesting, much more important. The lack of it and the irrational, mindless need for it.

“Try t-that one…”

You looked towards his gaze; careful to see which one he had decided to indicate. Your finger hovered over an unassuming divot in his armor that had since gone unnoticed. “This one?”

“And t-that.” An identical one, on the other side of his hip. “Same time.”

You slipped from the couch to the floor in front of him, between his splayed legs that welcomed you between them _._ He sneered when you pressed where and how he directed. Shamelessly. No verbal confirmation, just an expectant look down towards his lap.

Well, of course it wasn’t _that_ one.

You were speechless first in understanding what plate had clicked and unlatched in response. Was there anything more Genji-like than to be in this kind of serious predicament and still manage to act on an inappropriate whim like a horny little shit? “Yeah, why am I not surprised?”

He shivered faintly, eyes full of a look you had seen hundreds of times. “Ha... S-sorry.” _I couldn’t resist._

“ _Hm._ I bet.”

But, as ridiculous as it was, you decided that _this_ was a much more direct _and_ satisfying way around the problem. Mutually satisfying, actually.

“ _Genji?_ ”

There was a sure twitch of interest, his eyebrow flicking up to the sound being that he was painfully aware of the tone.

No longer a touch of recognition or curiosity, your hand grazed over the space above his lap which was rewarding in itself because even though he was a shuddering wreck, he still arched his casings towards you; his long, lean core pressed into your hand, begging. You toyed with him as nicely as you could, but toyed all the same, which was so fervently warranted for what he had pulled. You could be just as sly, if you wanted— which you did. It had been one hell of a long, boring year without him.

“So, that time that you saw me changing—”

He groaned, partly because of the involuntary shifting of his body, registering the delicious, malevolent intention in your gesture and partly because the rest of him was still wading through the soupy lack of control and the embarrassment piled on top demanded a visceral reaction. “D-don’t remind m—”

 _Oops._ Your hand “slipped” in the middle of his response.

The plate that you had just so deviously and accidentally unlatched lazily rolled to the floor with the slightest provocation. His chest shuttered, fully voluntarily, for what was so clearly and obscenely exposed, twitching for attention from having been painfully unattended to in far too long. Your gaze, soft but sharply alert, flickered up to him.

You knew how it looked. By that same right, you were amazed that he wasn't clouded in steam yet.

“W-what are you d-doing?”

 _Oh, you know exactly what I’m doing._ “I’m going to make it better...” Thick with confidence, some of it faked for what you were up against— but someone needed to take charge of the situation. You wondered briefly if he would be able to process any of _it_ amid the misfiring nerves but deemed it a noble cause to pursue anyway.

A sharp hiss of a curse struck the air once your tongue lightly pressed to the very tip of his cock. Provided the situation, the most innocent lick you could manage was still clearly and emphatically lewd. That, alone, was a powerful feeling.

“Does it hurt?” Not his hardness, which granted looked and felt the part, the stimulation.

Some very small part of you believed that even if it caused him massive amounts of pain, Genji would never refuse getting head. You were reassured by the attempt of a calming exhale, great stubborn huff followed by a deep fortifying inhale that while the feelings that rushed through him were strong, they were detached from pain.

You tested again with your tongue starting a little further down, tracing an imaginary line, a favorite sensitive vein, until it flicked over the head. He pulsed, some narration of impatience, his throat constricting a horrible moan and all too telling of his supressed hunger.

“So— good. So... U-uh...” But coherency was beyond him between all the sensations. He pressed one hand into the nearest arm of the couch, blanket slipping down his back in an enthusiastic arch forward for a better view, once again straining against his body to move. The other hand extended, sliding back over your forehead, trembling fingers adjusting so no hair could fall forward in your face. It was not a gesture of chivalry but sudden quiet greed, as if he could have been saying _“I am so fucking deprived, I need to see this_." You could not blame him as your own wants, like his, had become very clear and hollow and unkind.

You tested further, lower and lower, until you had not quite came back up to the head. Just the tongue, not yet advancing to the mouth in slow looping and swirling. It was as much for you as it was for him, after all. He shivered, quads contracting; you watched the segmented muscle buckle, a non-verbal argument that he had not seemed to be making progress with until his hand swiped your hair back once again and you knew to check his face. The quake had bloomed into a short-lived bolt of pain, tightness.

_You poor thing._

You gave him a look of concern, rising and climbing up the smooth of his pelvis and torso to reassuringly press your forehead to his. He breathed the ache that ripped through him and you felt it across your face in the little warmth of his exhale. You considered giving in then, you considered that it was inherently wrong to try to sate yourselves while he was so clearly uncomfortable and not fully in control, but his lips slanted over yours and you found yourself numbed by a desperate, aching kiss. Soft, determined to convey the emotions from the words that refused to form.

You weakened and crumbled, facing a very real threat of collapsing if he continued, but the feeling was fleet as he broke away. You were left acutely aware of his absence and how no one had ever, _ever_ kissed you like him as he whimpered back, “P-please.” There was no decency in his urgent tone, there was only the reverberation of a hurt you would never understand and a year’s worth of chaste bullshit that sat like a weight in the playboy’s chest.

After another kiss, you carefully repositioned yourself, fingers falling back into his lap to find his cock waiting. You immediately obliged him with your mouth, his request had been too much to ignore. And though you could distinctly remember how he adored holding out to the absolute distress of your jaw at times, it had been far too long since those days and he had not been prepared for your specific, undiluted eagerness.

“S-slower,” he sucked an inhale in, hissing through his clenched jaw, spine curving, bending, “I’ll...”

You removed your mouth, thin ribbons of saliva at your lips. “You’ll _what_?”

He took a deep inhale in the pause to force himself to calm down. It was all registering, perfectly; heat in the low centre of his belly had become one clear thing he could focus on— but it was too warm too fast. With obvious longing, he demanded to the smug pause, “S-slow. Not stop.” And he had the nerve to say so as if he hadn’t been fighting the urge to release the very second you first exposed his cock, let alone wrap your lips around it. Apparently you weren't supposed to have noticed, but you did.

You continued, following the request but only barely, deciding that slow couldn't quite mean slow either— not from how his body responded and how you knew he needed it just so, able to bear the pace for a while longer. You would have explained so yourself if your mouth wasn’t full.

His entire being, shivered and locked up. Terribly. With shallow, audible breaths, he held you in focus and all you could consider was how much he adored you, and how much you adored him— how nothing made sense but at least there was this moment then.

“F-faster, please.”

_See. I knew it. I know you._

His voice hung in the air before dissolving into the most beautiful groans, his tightly drawn throat left bobbing in his attempts to contain them but failing to do so. It was for the best— he was so vocal, so expressive. The vents jut out with a twist and click only a moment or two shy of him spilling his warmth, which had you nearly choke in surprise but his lack of warning only confirmed that he was surprised too.

He looked well-dazed, so, opening your mouth and exposing how completely coated your tongue was had been _completely_ unnecessary. He made an approving sound anyway—  _I love you. I love you so fucking much_ — before he collapsed back to have his head supported by the back of the couch, eyes edging over the ceiling and perhaps seeing stars.

The last of the steam licked at the air, tumbling and twisting and eventually disappearing. His cock, however, remained stubborn in your grip, refusing to go limp. Twitching.

You should have expected that much, too.

You gave him a generous minute to breathe, reducing your grasp on him to the kindness of your fingertips as he continued to suck air in and take fortifying, steadying exhales. He appeared to be so much more centered, less shaky— worth a pat on the back for your heroics.

You asked regardless, “Did that help at all?”

“Y-yeah. Think so...” He flexed an arm towards his chest, observing the synthetic muscle. The motion was slow, but easily precise. He was no longer fighting to get a response, what remained was more so like the expected heaviness of limbs after one too many drinks. He was all too used to dealing with that. "I'm cured and you— you're amazing."

“You’re still stuttering though—”

“I know,” Said before a deep exhale, pushing himself to sit stiffly once agin. “But that’s _your_ doing.”

His hands found your arms, pulling you back to him. You claimed his lap, knees shuffling onto the couch at either side of his solid hips, hands steadying yourself by pressing flatly against his chest. You were relearning the welcome presence of his body, immaculate strength and urgency, forgetting how you managed without him. It was all preserved, all still there.

You felt your face burn, renewed interest towards the expression he was making. _Oh god. Genji._  He buried his face under your chin, lips at your throat and gently nipping.

You had not only fixed him, but woke him up.

“Don’t strain yourself,” you had said weakly while the voice in your head claimed otherwise. _Please do. I can't imagine stopping now._

He hummed. Thoughtfully, devilishly, “I’m more concerned for you.”

“ _For me?_ “ Both fascination and sudden frenzy. ”Now I’m scared.”

And although you were the polar opposite of that, he generously reassured, “I’ll be careful with you.”

 

Even as things had begun on the couch by the steady patter of rainwater ticking at the glass door, the bundle of clothes left forgotten that had no business being between you and him, the not quite uniform panting, the rushing and whispering of air and electricity in his system that had begun to behave, you exhausted the novelty of the couch.

It would be fine for another time but the _need_ was dictating, and its demands were too fresh and intense and _raw_.

He requested for you to hold onto him, and you do by wrapping your legs around his body and your arms over his shoulders as he eased back into his full height. He carried you back to your bed, telling of what his upgrades had allowed. Impressive, functional. He was always capable but you felt the new fortifications of an effortless nature. All the while, he had kept his cock buried deeply in you and you were unable to resist the opportunity to tease by contracting your muscles around him, making the few steps it took to clear the hallway unbearably long. The face he made had you marvel that he didn't stop and use the wall as his next prop.

Once you were delivered to the flat of your mattress, Genji kindly tearing the unmade comforter aside to give you a flat surface to lay back on, he hardly had to adjust before his strong body was curled around you. One torturous roll of his hips, resuming his motions slowly, had your ankles cross from behind his back for leverage. You decided quickly that it wasn’t enough, one hand reached for his forearm while the other pressed to the dip in his back, urging him for more.

He gave you a look, full of startling confidence— unfairly experienced movements and incredible fullness enough to make a silent demand of it's own without the expression. When he spoke, it was in a low, shuddering breath, as if there was personal disbelief that he had still been stable and contained enough to make it last as long as it had, “Let me."

Now that he had you again, all to himself, he was going to take his time.

Knots of deep concentration in his face were elicited by the extraordinary, fulfilling tightness around his cock and each filthy drive of his hips. He gave another slow roll, the exceptional ache of the process forcing your own hips to stutter in response; at least he was merciful, at least he was allowing you his entire length. The dense burden of sexual frustration, as much as you hated to claim or admit, made each movement so much more rewarding. As soon as you would adjust, he would pull back and push in again.

“My Genji—” You shuddered through other incoherent gasps and whines, hands since sliding up his neck and face, giving his slick hair a gentle tug. He locked eyes with you at the mention, clear approval over his brow before kissing you as cleanly as he could but it was pathetically sloppy with need and proof that even though he demanded your patience, it was absolutely _wrecking_ him too.

He finally gave in, quickening as you fell apart panting. But, only slightly.

“Now…” His demand was gentle but firm, “Tell me you’re _mine_.”

It should have been simple but the words kept falling apart under the cool pads of his finger tips as they ghosted over your body and left trails that cut through the heat radiating off of your skin. “I’m— I’m... _Mmm, damnit_.” One of his hands had so graciously slipped between your legs, giving you one more reason to buck against him. You whimpered, tensing and rounding your shoulders, “It’s _so_ good. So good...”

“What was that, hm? You’re what?” Kindly, the benevolent reminder whispered in your ear, breathy but calm. Nothing else existed beyond the teasing thrusts, the small, confined movements of his hand, and the trancelike sound of his voice. “Tell me,” calm but filled with searing interest.

You would tell him anything as long as he didn’t dare stop. The words felt obscene, off the tongue, caught between a gasp and a cry, “I’m _yours_ , I’m... Ah—”

“That’s right,” he purred, the sound bubbling somewhere in his chest and curling into a grin as he unapologetically quickened his pace again into something humane and deserved for your shared self-control. Finally. Teeth just-barely scraped against the thin skin of your throat, rest against your pulse so delicately and dangerously. “Mine.”

There was the half-dark of the room and the heat between your bodies, there was little else. The distance you had once felt had no presence there, not with his strong body curled over yours, jaw shivering, possessed by a smirk interrupted by his own open mouth groaning, eyebrows upturned, looks of concentration, pleading, near worship…

God, this is how _good_ and _right_ and _victorious_ it was be to be alive, still. Human and whole. Pounding and vicious. Sudden and swift.

“Mine. Always.”

 

* * *

 

You were rudely roused from sleep by your phone ringing.

Genji wasn’t about to wake up for anything. Not the ringtone and probably not the fire alarm either, had it decided to go off too. Face first in the pillow and starfished, he assumed his preferred sleeping position and took up most of the mattress. His hair was charmingly disordered from you constantly looking for something to grip onto and the comforter just barely covered his properly fatigued body— even the lights on his armor were drained, glowing so low they hardly appeared to be lit at all.

Like an exhausted dragon, heaving with great sighs in slumber.

You picked up your phone, answering it immediately but waiting until you reached the living room to say anything towards the line. It was worth the extra precaution.

“Yeah?” The unambiguous exasperation threaded in your tone was perfectly valid, not that it was all that late— you and Genji had messed about until he could do nothing else but sleep— only that you weren’t ready to be awake and dealing with Hanzo just yet. That mind state needed time, focus you did not possess within you just yet. You needed to rest. “So, what’s the latest news? Claw still wants me dead?”

He ignored you, flatly. You were convinced you could say _anything_ and he would tune it out. It was tempting to test the theory, but he began to speak and you shut that thought down.

“Hanamura. Tonight.”

“What? It sounded as if you just said some _really crazy shit_ just now?”

“Can you be ready in 10 minutes?”

“Wait, can I what?”

“Good.”

_Click, dial tone._


	9. Spiteful

It took you 9 minutes before you were redressed and crouched over your feet, lacing up your boots on the mat outside your apartment door. You were host to a sort of subtle dread, awareness like a premonition that Hanzo knocking at your door would somehow be the one sound that Genji would wake up for.

It was a good thing you had anticipated him being early because he was a minute sooner than he had estimated when he rounded the corner. Hands shoved in his pockets, two stacks of lapis blue beads wrapped around his dominant wrist. Black sweater with the hood shrugged off under a leather jacket, silver zipper left open to a thin cotton shirt, hair slicked up and back but damp with rainwater.

It was clear from the face he made that he had not expected you to be ready and waiting.

“Hello,” he spoke in a voice that was formal but distant. It was always something with him.

“Yeah, hey,” you straightened up into his direct appraisal. “Are you okay? Everything alright?”

His scent was clean and sharp like a storm, immediate in his approach. “Yes. Fine...” He responded, the unconvincing tone and air about him affirmed that it was the best answer you would get. Hanzo would alway manage to prove his animus towards small-talk by shirking his way out of it.

“Good, good. Just making sure.” You continued, tilting your head to fish for the eye contact he denied, “I've got a quick question for you.”

He hummed his affirmation, cheeks and nostrils twitching at the nuisance as if he had the blessing of foresight.

“What the hell are you thinking? You really want to go back to _Hanamura_? After everything, you can’t be serious.”

Hanzo's expression remained neutral and disciplined. He had expected some variation of your reaction, taking it in with a slow widening of his kholed eyes. “I have to see something for myself. We will be quick and you will not be harmed.” You suppressed a chill for the infiltration a very specific, dark tone. That was the effective, imposing voice that used to command an entire criminal empire. 

It was then and not a moment sooner that you were given his full, piercing eye-contact, challenged to not look away as much as you wanted to.

_Damn, okay._

You forced yourself to sound level and confident. “I thought you said it was dangerous—”

“It is.”

“So, then why do I have to go with you?”

Hanzo gave no verbal indication but there was response enough in his stare as it weakened with a sudden, disorientating plea. The look was so slight that if you had so much as even blinked at the wrong time you would have missed it entirely. He would never confess, in denial of how absurd it was to say out loud or even consider in private, that the girlfriend of the brother he _murdered_ was becoming something like a friend to him. He had recognized in equal absurdity that the village would be more manageable to return to with support. Apparently you had let it slip your mind how he had thrown his arms around you at Shimada Castle; even if he would deny to his very last breath, _which he would_ , he was lonely and starved for contact.

To make up for asking, the question having answered itself in the fraction of a second where he looked genuinely lost, you feigned a playfulness. “Well, if we’re going, shouldn’t we be incognito? Did you at least bring some masks or something?”

On the surface he remained rigid, folded across his broad chest. Inside, he took a contrasting stance; he knew from continuously stumbling into the awareness, why it was that his younger brother had felt so strongly for you.

“Ridiculous," Hanzo murmured.

You raised your brow to his stern look and gave an apologetic half-smile, deciding the scolding was bearable. It felt worth it to tear his focus away from grief, even if just a moment at a time.

After an elevator ride to the main floor, you both took to the streets and immediately pulled your hood up at the spitting sky. The heaviest of the downpour had since subsided but the weather had driven most people indoors and in turn, the streets you roamed felt hauntingly empty. Hanzo walked slightly ahead, enough that his own hood stole any hope you had at reading his expression. But, he moved as if he were nervous, attention shifting at every step, vigilant and paranoid.

The station proved to be steadily busy even in the small hours of the day, he took the stairs two at a time but moved soundlessly over the concrete. Hanzo, deer in a thicket, slipped through the surrounding bodies, weaving. He had only slowed his determined pace once you had found the correct line. Noticing you had a few minutes to kill, he veered away. You followed, still, in fear of losing sight of him.

Hanzo went towards a vendor in one of the corridors along the platform. He ordered a roasted brown rice tea before sharply directing his gaze to you. You were stunned first, delayed in your understanding that he was asking you if you wanted anything without actually having asked— _god forbid that you would just say so, Hanzo_ — sputtering the first thing that came to mind. You were almost ashamed to admit to yourself that the offer seemed to be out of his character but the weather had brought on a chill and something to chase away the feeling from your bones was greatly appreciated. You thanked him as he paid.

“You didn’t have to, you know.”

His expression bordered embarrassment as he mumbled something about it being rude if he didn’t _at least_ offer, turning his sleepless eyes away from you. He would have prefered you hadn’t mentioned it and just accepted the gesture.

A lull kept insisting itself between you, the lack of conversation remarkably evident. In place of speech, your ears were filled by a purposeful clatter of feet over tile, periodic informative announcements by a placid computer-generated voice, the distant but powerful thrum of acceleration and movement, wheels skating over the finely welded tracks and coursing into squealing brakes.

Hanzo's first sip of tea was broken by a long, bolstered exhale. The tense line of his shoulders kept telling you his guard was up. 

You spoke suddenly, hoping to break him out of his head and mire him in something less severe than the stress he wore. “Did Inoue finish Matsu’s dragon the other day?”

Hanzo responded, lips just removed enough from the plastic lid for each word to be clear. “No.” He stopped to take a drink, leaving you to wonder if he had finished obliging you. You were surprised when he offered more, voluntarily, “Another session or two will be necessary.”

Matsu was solidly built, perhaps a Shimada clan requirement. His thigh was a generous canvas to work on. You mulled it over— the green and blue inks, the concentrated movement of the needle— your voice softening, “I want to see it when it’s done..."

Hanzo's eyes flashed briefly and you saw all the likeness of Genji’s in them, the spectral golden brown you had fallen so hopelessly in love with. “Come to the next appointment.”

“Is that an invitation?” You hiked an eyebrow up, unable to resist the new teasing quality in your voice. "It sounds like you're asking me to hang out."

Hanzo's tea became the more worthy centre of attention, briefly, ignoring you in annoyance that you wanted him to spell it out. You were at last answered by his eyes as they flicked back over your face— _it is an invitation, why must you be so insufferable?_ You grinned, more to yourself than anything. But the light-hearted feeling didn’t last. You considered what it would have been like had Genji “lived” for a few devastating moments, imagining a relationship with Hanzo that wasn’t so strained and dry.

Hanzo pulled into himself again which was clear from the vacancy that settled about him, perhaps thinking a similar thought to you too.

Shortly after your drinks were finished, the train rolled up with a whine and a displacement of air as the doors hissed open. Your thoughts immediately went back to Genji.

You and Hanzo sat next to each other in the back corner of the car to observe everyone getting on and off. Dim light filtered through the enclosure, cutting over and across you in wide oblong shapes. You had both decided independently to keep your hoods up to reduce the chances of being recognized, that being wary was better than being confronted by hordes of Yakuza. When the train rounded the corners of the tracks, his body remained perfectly inline while you could not help but sway. He cleared his throat. At some point you had begun leaning on him without realizing.

“I—” You began searching for excuses but blanked when faced with the striking astringency of the Young Master's noble features.

_End me._

He kept perfectly still, his body language saying either _I am not bothered_ or _please do not draw any more attention towards this as it is already blisteringly uncomfortable for me_.

You pulled away, straightening in your seat and pressing your palms on your thighs to steady yourself.

He cleared his throat. You expected for the words to follow to be harsh and critical but they were temperate. Faint. “... I... I avoided coming back...”

You turned towards him finding only the tip of his nose to his chin materialized, the rest of his face hidden by his hood. The corner of his mouth facing you twitched, held in a soft pout. What little sound you were capable of in response was empathetic, “I know, me too.”

You had spent a long year in exile, unable to bring yourself to visit, forgetting the brilliant shades of the blossoms and the lacquered wood belonging to the Shimada’s ancestral property.

Hanzo's complete face rendered with a weak swivel of his chin, breaking in anxiousness. He spoke as if he could hear himself talking but was suddenly unsure of the language; the words had been pushed down for so long that when they finally clawed their way out, they were unrecognizable. “It... was my home. _Our_ home...”

Had you been speaking to _anyone_ else about something so emotionally complicated, you would have expected them to be broken by sobs. He refused.

“It’s not your fault, Hanzo.”

How remarkably intimate it had been to squarely face him and say his name, to be able to watch the sequence of his features shift at your reassurance. You were used to handling smaller problems, issues between your friends and acquaintances, social situations where it would be perfectly logical to offer in consolation even if it were entirely untrue. You knew that's what everyone wanted to hear.

But Hanzo flinched at the accidental arrow in his chest your words had produced, further aggravation to a constantly angry wound. You watched his bottom lip fall to expose an uneven line of teeth in a moment of surrender. When he managed to speak again, words only shared in your immediate closeness, he was quieted by the imagined wetness of blood on his hands.

“But— it was my duty...”

You let it sit and marinate until your eyebrows narrowed in focus. _Wait, what?_

You could have sworn he was on the verge of tears, his eyes appearing increasingly glazed at each rough blink. There was another rich bout of silence and Hanzo used the time to draw back into himself, periodically pushing exhales out of his nose as if he had been receiving painful stitches instead of just thinking— _existing_.

“Are you sure you want to do this now?” You thought it important to ask.

He nodded, firmly.

You pulled your hood down, an uncomfortable heat rising on the back of your neck before asking the impossible question, fully expecting for him to give you anything but honesty. 

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” he rasped, swallowing thickly then nodding once again only with a further deadened expression as if it would have been irrational for him to be anything but.

 He turned into your movement, about to look away in disinterest when he caught the very faintest of marks on your neck. It took him a few seconds, eyebrows falling and bending in scrutiny before he understood what it was he had been looking at. You became very aware of your pulse quickening, just as you had been when Genji held his lips and teeth over your throat.

Hanzo hadn’t realized he was staring. In fairness, you hadn’t quite been able to recall Genji giving you any marks.

“Sorry,” Hanzo shuddered out, as if he had been holding his breath.

“No, it’s cool,” you assured him after pulling your hood back up, unable to look at anything save for the empty seat straight across from you.

 

 

 

Hanamura was murky and dark, swirling in the solemn song of night. You marveled at the familiar sights, the far and few between pockets of warmth and comfort still before Hanzo had lead you in a new direction. You moved away from anything that dared make you feel a shred of sentiment, into a district you had never bothered walking through.

“Where are we going, exactly?” You asked, but it was left unanswered.

Hanzo had the nerve to give you a scathing look, not having realized that you had drifted a few paces behind him. He beckoned you closer, galled, overly protective. “Come here,” said in what was technically a whisper, but still managing to borrow all the likeness of a command, both gravelly and severe.

_Where?_

He meant, come stand uncomfortably close to me.

You wanted to tell him that the five or six feet between you was not the liability he had imagined it to be— but, his eyes widened, brows raised, pupils narrowed. All of his limbs were coiled tightly with flight and impossible self assurance; he was able to spring into action as naturally as it was for most to breathe and blink. You had only fully processed the move after you were trapped, he had pinned you against the flat of the storefront window you had been walking by with so much force and intent that you hit your head on the glass with a dull, hollow _thunk_.

"Ow!  _What the fu-_ "

He pressed his hooded face close until your noses were almost touching. You felt his fringe brush over your cheek. " _Shh!_ " His eyes threatened further, _not a single sound_.

Genji would have undoubtedly lost his complete _fucking_ mind if he were to bare witness, but it was so horrendously far removed from what it had seemed. Your faces, close then in what could have been interpreted in an imagined fit of passion, went unnoticed by whoever it was that walked by. His intention was to hide in plain sight; it worked as the footsteps neared and passed without stopping.

The resentful clench of Hanzo’s teeth eased up, a dog that no longer fought to hold onto whatever it had wedged in its jaw. He gave you the most unimpressed look he was capable of forming before pressing away from the wall with one taut arm. You felt your lungs fill and expand, aware then that you hadn't breathed since he pushed you.

“I could do with a warning next time.”

“You should be grateful,” his sudden crispness, of volatile and misdirected emotion, had been reminder enough that you saw the same situation from two vastly separate points of view.

"You want grateful? Right. Well, thanks for giving me a concussion. I owe you one.”

“Do you not understand who _they_ were?” 

The question fell flat, death by rhetoric.

_Suits._

"Careless." He muttered, though his face did not foster the hardened expression for long. Once he was steeled again, taking hardly any time as the impassive look was his default, he lightly pressed a hand to your shoulder. You flinched into his palm, expecting force that wasn't there. "We must move."

Even so, reading how he had eased up, you pinched the bridge of your nose and made sure to voice your aversion in a drawn out sigh, "Sure, okay... But next time and  _I'm not kidding_ , warn me first."

He nodded. Vaguely apologetic, if you squinted. 

You were off again, keeping a compromised closeness at his side, at sure mercy of his instincts. For the most part, you walked slowly in an unhurried pace. Running or rushing would only draw eyes towards you. He felt them, seeming to know when the were approaching and quickening or weaving, used to their habitual spots and preferences. You felt nothing but the promise of adrenaline, the brittle rhythm of your heart that mirrored the gentle, residual throbbing at the back of your skull.

_Thanks again, Hanzo._

“Here,” he indicated suddenly to the building that seemed to emerge from the dark, twinkling like a slice of the Las Vegas strip and doing nothing for the slow-building headache you felt rising. "Matsu said this was it."

Then it clicked, the end of the conversation that had eluded you. Matsu had given Hanzo Ando's location: here— a hostess club. The Roost, so said the signage, in looping orange neon. You had seen plenty of clubs like it, just never once in sleepy, traditional Hanamura.

Cascading bulbs lined the alcove that jut out into the street, a twinkling waterfall of lights. Muffled conversation and music inside drifted out into the narrow street. A bouncer who stood guard hadn't looked particularly interested in you but it was hard to tell after the exposure of so many flashing bulbs; halos and black spots peppered your vision as you pulled away.

“Another basement tattoo shop?” You wondered out loud to Hanzo who was no longer at your side but finally breaking his own condition and straying.

He scanned the billings posted near the door, eyes darting in sour speculation, reading names to himself before withdrawing. There was a complicated twisting of his already intense features which kept you from saying anything else before he spoke again, though his voice was unnaturally level and mismatched. “Do you know what a roost is?”

You gestured with your arms widening. “Uh, yeah. This place.” Light danced over you, winking playfully. You screwed your eyes shut before peaking one open. He supplied you with a brutal, over-the-shoulder look that made you reconsider. “It’s like a nest.”

“A place where birds sleep...” Hanzo mused, likely for his own benefit. Laughter and chanting swelled from inside.

You waited for him to say more but were not prepared for him to break into movement again. Without warning, he backed away in two long steps then turned his body on his heel and stamped off, just short of knocking into you in his haste. You had to hustle to catch up to him as he made no efforts to slow down.

“What now?” You hadn't been fond of the desperate tone of voice that rose from your lips and you knew you were looking at him with incredible disbelief. Both things that seemed beyond you. _That was all of twenty seconds. Was that really all we came here for?_

“We leave. Now.”

“Why?”

“That was the plan.”

“That’s it? Th—”

He stopped short. You were thankful that he was taken out of his pace until his stare notionally sharpened, knifelike then. It had been a long time since your blood had ran so cold, forcing you to withdraw. He fought to remain still and focused as tension broke over him, an unforgiving wave smashing against the shore. “I have seen _enough_.”

He huffed and continued with his irritatingly streamlined movements, leaving you scramble after him once more while feeling less and less sure of what happened. You wanted to ask more but you could understand that Hanzo’s acute senses were the only thing keeping you safe from imminent harm and you couldn’t afford to strangle the air with questions. He needed to be somewhat vigilant to ensure your safe return.

There was the clicking of a disposable lighter as he was reduced to a firing impulse that left his his thumb desperate. He held a cigarette between his teeth in an open-mouth frown, growling and abusing the spark wheel that refused to ignite until he was successful. His first intemperate drag was taken savagely, held, forced down with everything else. He closed his eyes tightly, shutting everything out and finally slowing to a reasonable stride.

By the time you had returned to the heart of the village the rain only lingered as gently as it could and left a faint sheen over everything by the glow of the street lamps. Hanamura shuttered like a time lapse film and only real to you then because the air was heavy and damp in your lungs. The speechlessness between you did all the heavy lifting, insisting someone say something as you reached the station and waited on Hanzo to finish smoking.

“He slept with them." He offered finally after much reticence, looking pained to speak. He must have considered the very long night of silence he had ahead without anyone to talk to and gave in.

“Who?” You said gently, first. All you could manage was the one word even though you already knew who he meant. You needed to hear him say it all the same.

Hanzo grit his jaw, making it very evident how humiliating it was to speak of. “Genji.”

Impartial to the open-ended nature of your interpretation, you pressed him for more, very nearly possessed to grab him by his arms in the assault of emotions that had galvanized. “Genji slept with _who_?”

That was not his topic of choice. He met your eye, clear dose of disgrace in his scowl. You accepted the harsh, withering look, pressing your shoulders back and standing as tall and defiant as you could in the face of it.  _Just tell me._

You won.

He breathed the last of his cigarette in, smoke flaring out of his nostrils in vehemence. His words were starched and forced, “The name is spiteful... Where birds sleep...” The sound of his low voice overlapped the winds shifting about you. He repeated again, in elemental submission, “You must remember that my brother's nickname was _Sparrow_...”


	10. Silver Thaw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> nsfw (this was supposed to be fluff, i don't know what happened)

Hanzo pulled into himself with a look of contemplation and refused to say anything for the longest time. His unwillingness had suited you; you had been equally as silent and every bit as resistant to participate in conversation. The lull of the transport had you draw your arms into your chest, eyes closed to the harsh fluorescence. You floated into and out of the idea of sleep as your ears were filled with the drowned out sound of the train sweeping over the track.

Thought was a heavy burden. Everything made demands and your exhaustion had only added extra difficulty, proven by any meaningful conclusion eluding you, leaving you unsettled. Your first priority became falling back into bed. Sleeping. Everything could wait until morning— had to.

You opened your eyes to the sound of Hanzo’s voice as he spoke with cold determination. “The next time will not be so simple.”

You knew you would have to return, a force like gravity always dragging you back, and for that reason him saying as much registered all the same as a tired joke. Redundant. You sighed in resignation, heavy limbed and lidded, all too aware of how uncomfortable the seat beneath you was as you shifted in it. “Whatever you say.”

Again, burdensome logic of the situation insisted. Hanamura represented everything exposed and unfinished and the Roost, especially, a version of Genji you had never known— a side of him that he gave up once he decided you were more important. You reminded yourself, talking down the swell of nausea, that he wasn't to blame. Neither of the brothers had asked for what come to pass. You had to accept it, grimly— like a natural disaster. Depressing, but unpreventable.

When your stop came up, you insisted to Hanzo that you didn't need him to walk you back home but he rose to his feet with insistence as if you hadn’t said anything, as you had assumed he would.

You walked with twilight's still-damp air in each breath, the moon hanging high above you and the empty streets. He took in the surroundings with a sweep of his gaze, eyes settling on nothing. Once you approached the front of your building, you made a point of mentioning to him that you were fine to make it back up alone. Again, it went ignored.

Having returned you to the exact place where he had met you earlier and deciding that was sufficient, Hanzo had nearly disappeared down the hallway before he lurched to a stop. “Your head... Does it hurt?”

It mattered little if he genuinely cared or not, which was hard to tell by the tone of his voice. Asking was enough. The ache from when he had shoved you had reduced into something dull and manageable, it was the culmination of everything else that was the problem. You shrugged as you responded, tone infiltrated with something bordering flippancy, “I’ll live, if that's what you mean.”

He bent a brow in true, expressive Shimada fashion before pulling his hood back up. “I would hope so.”

Then he left, just like that— a storm, rolling in and out.

You gently shook your head at the empty corridor that slid away from you into shadow. 

_Goodnight to you, too._

 

Genji was still starfished. You would have regarded the sight with more tenderness had you not considered every stupid, annoying thought that forced its way between you and him— irrational or not.

Heaving a sigh, you slipped your damp clothing off, stripping down to your underwear before changing into a soft, clean shirt from your dresser and carefully navigating Genji’s sprawling limbs. He sighed deeply in his sleep, arm flexing around you and trapping you in his subtle scent and warmth, easing you with the steady metronome of his pulse.

You woke up as you had become accustomed to, by the phone ringing and buzzing with insistence. Your eyes snapped open to mid-morning light that lent warmth to the room, casting golden shapes over the walls. Reaching out and blindly feeling for your phone on the bedside table next to you, your voice was broken with sleep as you answered the call.

“What now?”

The response sounded deeply amused. “Well, you’re not Genji.”

 _And you’re not Hanzo._ With your threshold for genuine shock significantly heightened, a lasting side effect dating the  _ex-playboy ex-yakuza cyborg ninja_ , you were not all that surprised to hear a stranger's voice. “Who is this? Do I know you?”

“You don’t. I’m just someone looking for Genji.”

“Right, I figured as much. What do you want?”

“Well, to speak to him, preferably,” as if it were painfully obvious.

You were approaching the very delicate border of irritation, words sharpening appropriately, “And how did you get this number?”

Their response was thick with sarcasm after a sniff of disdain. “You’ll never believe me—”

Your thumb hovered dangerously close to the red end call icon before deciding against it. “Right, hold on.”

“Sure. Take your time. It's not like this is important or anything.”

You eyed the phone with suspicion before combing your free hand through Genji’s silken hair, giving a few loving scratches at his crown. Miraculously, he grunted and rolled his head towards you with one eye peeking open, eyelashes fluttering in strain. What little of his body left uncovered by blankets was as brilliant as silver thaw.

“Someone wants to speak to you,” you spoke low and gentle but with seriousness he could pick out immediately, even in his softened state of awareness.

He slowly forced both eyes open, gradually blinking until he could stand the morning’s vivid presence. Clearing his throat and twisting until he was sitting, the sheet still partially draped over him, he questioned, “Who?”

You clarified, holding the phone out for him to take. “They won’t say.”

He assumed a tone you had only ever heard him use sparingly, phone wrapped in his hand and pressed to his ear, "I'm not awake enough to deal with this." You couldn’t hear the words spoken in response but you could hear the buzz of the voice. “We'll talk later.” He halted as the other retaliated before scowling and repeating, “I said _later_.”

You kept up your charade of disinterest, carding a hand through his hair in mindless repetition.

Visibly relieved to hang up, he set the phone down harder than he intended before turning back towards you, his voice still troubled and defensive. “Why are you staring at me like  _that_?”

Your hand paused in muted hesitation before continuing with improvised reason, “I just noticed you have a grey hair.” Which  _he did—_  but that wasn’t at all what the look was for. You had been trying to make sense of the censored, one-sided conversation.

He faked surprise, previous agitation lifted from his features. “Do I?”

“Don't worry, it makes you look distinguished.” You combed his hair back once again, twirling the longest strands about your fingers. Your eyes strayed over the scars along the smooth skin of his face until they locked with his. The look you gave him, and he gave you, was brief but compressed; mutual allowance to be people you couldn't be outside the apartment.

He hummed in satisfaction before thought creased over him and his voice fell solemn. “My father had silver hair.”

You located it again, cautiously pinching the root. "Maybe you'll go silver too."

He gave you a joyless smile and you dropped your hand at the shift in his expression. His gaze edged downwards, towards the faint green halos of light from his torso that passed through the thin material of the sheet, “I have a hard time remembering him, much of my past has slipped away from me.” Genji gave away into a little pause, fitted with a sad sigh. “ _Ha_ , perhaps my memory is broken...”

You rested your head on his shoulder, listening to the delicate whisper of air through his system as he folded his arms. “None of you is broken.”

His eyelids dropped at your assurance. You could hear the thudding of his heartbeat; that alone nearly made you forget to ask.  _Nearly._

“So— who called?” You lifted your head and pressed an impatient hand to the segmented brown muscle of his side, feeling the obvious solidity and heat beneath the carbon fibre, the dragon sleeping inside. His chest expanded and contracted at your touch as if it were no different than flesh. You asked again, insisting but freezing in pace. “What did they want?”

 _I can’t tell you_ — unsaid, written all over his face. 

You all but blinked before he began to stir and in one fluid motion, he was  _sitting over you_. Your legs trapped between his, blank expression flickering with something hauntingly familiar. Your eyes widened before sharpening with the most irritated look you could manage, given the new circumstances. The plates he removed last night were still on the living room floor along with a pile of your clothing.

"Genji."

"Yes."

“Are you aware that your dick is  _completely out_ right now?”

He gave you a few idle blinks before a grin stretched over him, flashing the slightest of teeth.

You let out a long, suffering sigh, trying with all you had not to look down. “What am I going to do with you?”

“Whatever you want,” he spoke before leaning in, fingers grazing your collar and sweeping up to your chin, holding you still. Searching you, reading you.

“I know exactly what you're doing. You can’t _charm_ your way out of this.”

But, it was just like him to  _try_.

He gave you the beginnings of a self-assured smirk before pulling away in pretend surprise. “I can’t? I think you’re underestimating me.”  _Don’t you know how far I’ll push this? You think I won’t?_

His plan was  _already_  infuriatingly working in his favor, unmistakable flush crossing your face. “We  _really_ need to talk about all of this...”

He nodded sympathetically before well-placed kisses found the delicate skin of your jaw and neck, your breathing rate noted by the hammering of your pulse. He felt your throat vibrate with moans you were trying  _and failing_ to keep down. When he paused to speak, much to your own hard-wired irritation, you longed for him to continue, “Go on, then.”

You felt the tug of obligation to what you had seen last night in Hanamura, for all the over thinking that it had inspired. “Last night—” You started, only to stop as a finger brushed over your thigh that no part of you believed was accidental. “Last night..." You tried again but forgot the point as his middle and index finger strayed, pulling a sharp inhale from you. “Genji!”

“I’m listening...” His velvet voice explained with poorly feigned innocence. The morning's sun washed over his face, sublime amber eyes full and focused. In almost the same breath, seemingly forgetting what he had just said, he gave a light tug at the hem of your underwear, “Ah, these are _cute_...”

You had full intention to continue but then the finger trailed up and pressed down on your bottom lip, parting them slightly. His expression was close and devious, chin tilted to gaze at you from behind his coal lashes. Without conscious intent, _talk_ became a useless command directed to yourself. A meaningless sound, an afterthought.

“You can stop me if you want.” He gave the slightest grind of his hips against you for friction, lacking the restraint to stay still.  _You can, but you won’t._

Trying to remember what you wanted was hard, near impossible to gauge what was more important when you imagined taking his finger into your mouth and feeling it press down on your tongue, aching for his hips to grind against you a little more. 

“Do you want me to stop?”

By then,  _w_ e _need to talk_  had yielded into  _fuck conversation entirely, stop teasing me and do something about it already._

He breathed softly through his nose as his synthetic hand attentively cupped your face, palm pressed to your cheek and thumb playing once again on your lower lip in calculated provocation. "What do I do?"

You felt desperation you hated to place. _If you won’t tell me, at least make me forget._  He had offered you the same distraction a lifetime ago. Stillness stretched over you until you could feel the response on your lips, "Keep going. Don't stop."

"Very well..."

Then his hands, no less determined than you had known them to be, skimmed over your legs and once again slipped between them. His fingertips ran in long, teasing strokes up and down your slit. Your back arched at  _just_  that, bluntly encouraging him to continue. Your legs were eased apart, knees bent and feet flat to the mattress. He knelt between, kissing the sensitive skin of your navel without a thread of self-possession, moving downward until he lewdly and obscenely let his tongue out of his mouth to give a single long, torturous lick over the fabric of your underwear. You hissed, hands curling into fists.

“You need this,” you could hear the smirk rising in his voice, nose brushing the line of your pelvis in his downward motion. He asked, but it sounded more like a statement, “Don’t you?”

Your entire being knotted. Twisted. It was almost criminal to stop then as he had, waiting for verbal confirmation, emphasizing that he was only doing _exactly_   _as you asked_. You urged with a frustrated whimper. "Yes, please."

“I know, I know,” he soothed after releasing his lip from the involuntary bite he had trapped it in. His voice was low but silken, silvered. You felt another whine in your throat as his voice lost its sharpness, face dipping between your legs as he obliged you with a second lick before impatiently pulling the fabric to the side with one eager cybernetic finger.

You knew before he did anything how it would feel— or at least, you thought you had. You really considered that you would be prepared until you felt the slightest of his tongue over you, contact without a barrier. Blanking entirely, you pressed a hand to your mouth to quiet the strange sounds as your sides tensed and shivered, wanting to pull away _and_ closer. You pushed a determined exhale out of your nose, trying to remain collected though breathing steadily did nothing and trying to refocus was a lost cause because of the way his tongue dragged and circled your clit was all the same an admission to dreaming about your taste for a _very long time_.

And then he had the nerve to ask, watching how you absolutely could not keep still, straying further away from composure, “Does it feel good?” In the brief absence of his mouth, he pressed two fingers against you in tight, practiced circles with varying degrees of pressure.

“Very,” your breathless, broken voice affirmed. 

“Good.” The two fingers skimmed down, pressing into you before he resumed in terrible confidence, his mouth latching back to your clit, tongue relaxed, grazing, lavishing. Eyes fluttering shut in focus, his fingers eased into you completely then dragged out slowly, urgency changing once he felt you could handle it, until he felt the first spasm— never more thankful that his cybernetics could register the sensation.

“Don’t hold it back.” Said as if you could, through that smirk of his that knew _damn well_ you wouldn’t. “C’mon...”

There was heat, slinking down your spine. Your mouth dropped open, hands reaching along the mattress for something to grip onto and finding nothing but the sheets. His other hand pressed down to keep you from moving and bucking against him too severely, feeling your stomach tense up underneath. A series of spasms around his fingers, you tapped his forehead, him knowing to finally pull away at your command. He ran his tongue along his lower lip, pressing a hand to his jaw as if he had only then realized the strain from his fevered movements. There was a quiet glory in his face that he made no attempt at hiding, drinking you in, left trembling and pliant in the aftershocks.

His agile body and tilted posture still knelt between your legs, synthetic muscle of his tight obliques stressed. Erection straining and beaded with precome, blurring the line between being pleasantly ready and overly so. “You want to talk now?” 

You simpered, expression hazy beyond that,  _oh you’re so funny_. You shook your head to decline, panting gently to calm your heart back down to a bearable pace. The mere notion of stopping to call upon reason greater than the  _terrible fucking itch you just had to scratch_  was laughable. You were dizzy with wanting, needing. It was all as simple and as complicated as that.

“You don’t have to say it, I can tell.” His smugness vanished as he spoke, reassuring. He shuffled up the bed on his knees until he was close enough to run and glide the head of his throbbing cock against your slit. You whimpered at the sensation of it, at how achingly close he was to just pushing in and untying the knot of tension in you. You rolled your hips against him, pulling a helpless groan from Genji, whose chest shuddered in a breath that you hadn’t realized he was holding.

He allowed you to grind your hips against his, slicking his length properly against your wetness as his other hand strayed. A palm flattened against the hot skin of your torso, sliding up and under your shirt. “You’re so beautiful, just like this,” he murmured, watching as you melted into his gentle words and touch. “Like always.”

“Are you forever going to sweet talk me?”

“Why would I ever stop?” He smiled, more devilishly then innocent, before carefully, but  _oh god finally_  pressing into you. He shivered all the way under the strain of trying to hold back, moving nicely and gently as if you were breakable because your skin was organic and soft and unlike his, therefore fragile.

“Please...” Your toes curled in equal parts pleasure and frustration, the ache of the stretch closely shadowed by the anticipation of being filled completely. “ _Please please please_ don’t do this slowly.”

“No?” Amused and interested, the lights down his armor flickered as he pulled back out. His throat was taught with a groan he was trying to swallow.  _Tch._

“I’m not above begging.”

If he wasn’t so sure that the sound of you pleading would lead to an embarrassingly fast release of his vents, or, that he wasn't too impatient to capitalize on that, he might have let you.  _Might have_. Instead, his voice darkened just enough for you to understand the invitation, “Show me what you want.” But, all the same,  _I’ll give you anything— just take._

You sat up, quickly and full of intention, pressing a hand to his breastbone— or what would have been, provided your hand was touching flesh instead of his durable plating. He sat back over his heels, a smooth automatic motion in foresight, trusting your lead. Readjusting, you claimed his lap for your own as one of his hands supportively met your waist. You centered his cock underneath you, light grip easing down his length as he sighed and stiffened at the minimal, tame contact.

You gave him a few more unnecessary strokes for the sound he made alone, deciding it a just cause.

You rested your forehead against his, the skin of his face was flushed, a faint sheen of sweat over his temples. He gave a choked moan as you eased yourself over him, quieting himself with a devastatingly satisfied grin only when he was neatly bottomed out in you. 

The sensation was overwhelming you but you felt your lips move.

"This." You drew the words out, slow and precise. " _This_  is exactly what I want." 

He hooked his fingers at your neck possessively, draping his thumb down your clavicle. You inhaled, filling your lungs, adjusting then clenching— pulling a gentle snarl from Genji, who cursed under his breath. The first of your strokes were shallow before becoming incrementally deeper. Then faster. The heat of his body was numbing and you gasped out sounds that might have been coherent words but none of it was important.

He switched his grip to something gratifying and tight to your hips, assisting your smooth motions and helping you maintain the pace; lewd flicker of smugness passing over his face every now and then for how you kept tensing over his deliciously, perfect cock. You felt your face burning, hands flying up his chest and neck and the sides of his face to his hair, raking it back with your fingers. His chin tilted up and back into the motion, confidently holding your exact gaze, so dense with need. It was hard for you to think of anything past the idea that you were about to break, that the only thing that had any hope of keeping you together was the careful repetition and the very thing that threatened to destroy you.

You curved against him, hand slipping from his hair to his neck, pressing against the hardness of his armored protruding spine. The pressure that had been building up suddenly denied its passive burning; white-hot and sudden, it had you tensed and clenching impossibly tighter around him. His head tilted with a lustful growl, eyes rolling back for a half-second. He purred through the set and release of his jaw, surprising you with a sound beyond his throaty moaning and murmured praises. “You’re nearly there, aren’t you?”

Well, you could have possibly ignored it for a little longer provided he hadn’t drawn your attention straight to the fact that  _yes, you were dangerously close to the edge_  and  _yes, you wanted release so badly that you could have maybe almost cried_. He was terrible for saying so because it made it all the more apparent that you were dodging it and soon the feeling would devour you. Your hips stuttered and your movements faltered, determined to bring him closer to his end before you lost yourself in your own. “Oh god. Y-yeah, I am…”

But slow was not on his mind then, not since you had persuaded him otherwise and he had been  _so good_ and  _behaved_ to not interfere sooner. He took back control as if he had only allowed you to borrow it to begin with. Taking hold of you in his strong grip, you were lifted from off the bed only to have your back pressed flatly against the nearest wall in a matter of footsteps. Compensation for yesterday, delayed recovery for all the teasing. 

With shameless want, he whispered against your lips as if he were about to kiss you, “You're going to come for me.”

Your shock, fleeting as it was, became sharp instinctual awareness. Especially so when you felt him driving back into you in a different angle that amplified the already overwhelming fullness. The only thing you could properly process in the haze of hormones, higher-functions of your brain on standby, was that you were about to unravel. You cried out his name.

“I’m here.” Soothing still, or meant to be, completely devastatingly contrasted by the newly rigorous pace of his thrusts. Voice strained by his harsh panting. “I’m right here...”

You nodded. A full whine at the back of your throat dissolved into a moan. Resisting was doomed, it was all too much— all too incredibly, impossibly much for you to deny. Nor would he want you to.

You seized up, all muscles trying to latch onto him or hold him closely, contractions metrically falling in and out of time with your wild pulse. Your mind, perfectly empty, as your head fell back on your neck and skull stopped with a gentle, muted tap at the wall. Not one single worry was left— just him,  _your Genji,_ so feverishly fucking you through your orgasm, hypersensitivity and all. You felt light headed, your grip weak and legs shaking until you were sure the feeling had reduced just enough to crash over you once again.

There was no room to slip away pressed as closely as you had been to the firm plating of his chest that you were just forced to take it and come  _again_  around his thick length, feverishly pumping into you.

“Genji?” Your eyes were glassy and far away, your cheeks dusted with a brightpink.  _Petal pink_. The short-circuit of your brain urged you to speak, voice shattered and hoarse, “I-I love you.”

His eyes widened to the sound.

It was always felt, always there, _maybe from the very first night you met_ — but saying it? Did you say it enough, could you? 

With newfound desperation, he kissed you. Made chaotic and messy and _thoroughly obscene_ with the weight of desire behind the action. That was when his pace faltered and the words rushed into the next, his jaw tensing and amber eyes smoldering. He growled, breaking away from you with an " _ah_ " before he seethed out, “I love you, too....” A shiver broke over him before his voice entirely caved in. The realization no longer a distant thing but very apparent. “... And,  _fuck_ , I’m about to come.”

You went to kiss him again, opting in place to take his bottom lip with your teeth. You felt the vibration of a groan leave him at your agency, the almost surprise that melted away too quickly from him to call it such as. Releasing him from your playful bite, you turned his phrase back on him. “Genji, you're going to come for  _me_.”

Because you could, because his vulnerability was tempting and it was frankly unacceptable and borderline irresponsible for him to believe he could make you come for a fourth time while drawing out his first.

Entranced by your request, the tip of his nose brushed against yours. In his closeness, he asked as a wide smirk flitted over him, “Y-yeah?”

Your thumbs skimmed along his jaw line to cradle the sides of his face, keeping obedient, startling eye contact as you gave him a nod.

He made a sound that almost seemed pained before losing himself in the overwriting command of his own orgasm, rutting his hips in an impaired, unrestrained manner. His chest compressed, pulled inward, tensing then flexing. He had just enough sense in his rational brain to pull his cock out before he came— the gentleman that he was, barely managing to hiss  _“where?”_ and you something like  _“wherever you want”_ which was more than sufficient.

He finished with a low growl and a roll of his tight abdominals, come perilously dripping down your stomach as he cautiously lowered you to the floor. Your knees still liquid and unsteady, shaking as you stood. The entire moment was further punctuated by the vents as they jut out, giving a sharp release of heat and mist before corkscrewing and clicking back into place.

Genji, unable to move much until the feeling tapered away, pressed exhausted kisses to the flushed skin of your neck and shoulders. He shuddered out a laugh. "So, what about last night?"

  

You went to shower, the effects of Genji's distraction still coursing through you. You felt okay— _good_ even, loved and looked after. After you turned off the water, you noticed that he had snuck in without you realizing.  _Ninja_ , your heart affirmed at the sight of the hearts he had drawn on the mirror, outlines cut through the steam over the glass.

With a towel wrapped around you, you found him sitting on the sofa in the living room, fully reclined and newly "decent" with his face angled towards the balcony window. He traced another heart in the air with his finger, tipping his head just enough to pull you into vision.

You had planned to grab a few groceries, mutual decision made that having food in the apartment would make life easier for the both of you. He requested after you had dried and dressed, catching you at the front door, “Can you get noodles?”

“Are you, by chance, thinking of making ramen?”

“Possibly.” Which was inherently more  _yes_ than  _maybe._

“So then, I’ll  _quote, unquote_ possibly need to also buy ginger root, bean sprouts, nori…” You listed a few more ingredients and received that sly, high-eyebrowed look in return.

“And, one more for the list, if you don't mind.”

“Sure, anything.”

“Green hair dye.”


End file.
